Redemption Twining
by Saraa Luna
Summary: In the far north, a warlord seizes an abbey for his own and makes special plans; in the south, a desperate Juska tribe seeks out the prophesied Taggerung, and in the middle, a quarry of vermin struggles against a lurking evil. But three beasts are going to eventually collide in one place: Redwall. And nothing can stop them.
1. Prologue

"_Sometimes, the stories that meet at the end have been barely interlocked befor—just brushing in their paths— but Fate leads them together."_

—Ragweed Churchmouse, Redwall Recorder

* * *

In the blistering cold of the far north, an abbey fell.

The robed brothers and sisters were still crying as they were marched out into the snow, their habits stained with tears and blood as the vermin army forced them to stumble along. More screams rang out inside the brick walls, two small gates breaking and being cleared away as cheering vermin finished dismantling the hinges and crushing the already-splintered wood, and a grotesque red light glowed over the sections of the abbey that were burning. The cold winter air was pierced with the heat of spilt blood and an aurora borealis of fire. Cast against it, the unfinished abbey walltops and bare support structures were dark skeletons on the horizon.

Atop a nearby hill, an armored ferret oversaw the chaos, his fur disheveled and scraped silver armor slicked with gore. He watched the line of brothers and sisters curve along the hillside like nothing more than a beaten chain of ants and trembling limbs. The ferret's mouth twitched downwards in a frown as some of the vermin laughed and struck out at the fallen abbeybeasts, causing the chain to stagger with more sobs and tears. Even as they cried, the liquid was frozen into an icy sheen over the woodlanders' whiskers and faces. They blearily blinked in pain to try and force the biting cold away.

There was a soft crunch of snow behind the warlord, and he turned his head to see a rat approaching behind him. The other vermin was dressed out in lighter armor, her clothes smelling of burning fur and recently tightened bandages, but the rat proudly pushed herself forward with her bloodied spear as a walking stick. She lifted her head, gold hoop earrings quivering.

"Lord Kevern, the abbey has finished falling. We've won," she said. Excitement filled her voice over the crack of strain. "All that remains are a few more of the huddled woodlanders in the building, and seein' they're younger, all we have to do is push them out into the snow. We kept the blood spilt in the building to a minimum."

"Good," the ferret said. He eyed the walls of the now almost emptied abbey, hearing the sounds of screams and echoing footsteps from within. "As soon as we clear out the rest of the abbeybeasts, we'll retrieve the females and cubs from hiding." Kevern frowned as he heard yet another scream and burst of hateful, carefree laughter from the sound of evacuating brothers and sisters. The line staggered on. "Reina, command the soldiers to stop harassing the defeated. If a single one of those prisoners is killed or crippled on this ground, I'll personally add the offender into their company. We've slaughtered enough holy beasts; Fate will turn against us if we go any further."

"Yes, milord," Reina said, bowing her head at the snap of coldness in her leader's voice. "I'll do that immediately. But, speakin' of the prisoners— what do you want us to do with them?"

Kevern curled his wickedly sharpened claws around the hilt of his sword, watching part of the abbey burn before the falling clumps of snow extinguished it or the small bursts of flame ate themselves alive. Cold wind bit at both of the vermin's faces, a familiar feeling for all of the vermin. Twenty seasons of wandering the tundra like rejects, Kevern thought, and now, with victory in his grasp and soft enemies who'd rejected them before…

"Take them to the northern pass and release them," Kevern said. "Allow none to escape or go in another direction. The snow can have their bodies as it did their abbot's; whether they find shelter before the storm falls is none of my concern." Kevern made a sour face once more as there was a crack of bone from somewhere in the line, and a high-pitched shriek followed after.

"…call our families and weakened inside the abbey only _after_ this parade has made it out of sight," Kevern said, his voice as flat and cold as an ice plain. "Keep the rest out here after they return. I have a few words for them."

Reina instinctively pulled her cloak closer around her neck at the brewing danger and anger in the ferret's dark-masked eyes. The vermin group was desperate, but they were not wolves. She licked the blood from one of her cut lips and bowed her head.

"Yes, milord. I'll do that immediately."

The rat turned to leave, and Kevern paused as he saw her heavily lean on her spear as she walked away.

"Reina!"

The rat halted, looking over her shoulder. The tundra and ragged rocky mountains that engulfed them hissed and cursed as wind and violent vermin filled the air with cracking icicles and bones. Keveren raised his paw. The gauntlet on it gleamed with cracks and red-tinted melted snow.

"Get rest afterwards. I cannot have you indisposed."

Reina stared at her warlord's stern face for a few moments before a tired smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She bowed her head to hide it, the brief joy fading as there was more laughter and cries of pain from the slinking line of abbeybeasts below.

"I will… milord."

The female began to navigate her way down the slope, using her spear to compensate for her limp, and Kevern turned back to oversee the action below. Some of the last woodlanders were being chased out the abbey's little doors, yelping the whole time as their feet hit the cold ice instead of their home's brick floors. They were flushed out into the snow, quivering and whimpering, and the ferret warlord watched with satisfaction as Reina made it down to discipline the line of soldiers and added the newly escaped woodlanders to the row of prisoners.

Kevern looked up from his warriors to the grey-stoned abbey, his eyes following up the seams of the bricks to the very top of the newly built fortress's spire. A simple green flag fluttered back and forth at the top, clashing with the colors of red below as the northern wind tossed it around.

The warlord narrowed his eyes. He would light an arrow and burn it as the first thing he did once his group was safe inside the walls. This had been the woodlanders' homes before— a safe haven for the same beasts which were being lead away in a weeping chain of bowed heads and hoods.

Not any longer.

Now, it was _theirs._

* * *

"Are you reekin' _sure _this time?"

"I am; I swear on the spit of Vulpez, she went inta a trance a minute 'o two ago—"

The jabbering fox was shoved aside as the stoat warrior next to him passed him, heading towards the low, long hut of the seer. After threes seasons of waiting for this, he thought, striding faster, he wasn't about to let it fall apart if the actual prophecy was here. Zenrisk felt his heart beat faster as the fox next to him continued to nervously prattle. The stoat wrenched back the curtains covering the hut's door.

The fierce tattoos across his face contorted as he narrowed his eyes, turning his gaze on the aged vixen at the other end of the hut. The translucent purple headscarf across her head was drooping as she leaned back— all of her various bone bracelets and tribal scarves drooping down her tattooed arms— and her glazed eyes were tilted upwards, blank and unseeing. The incense and trailing smoke from the little fire in front of her made twisted, looping trails in the darkened air.

It was real trance, Zenrisk thought, or his pelt was a bloody pile of his sludge. His jaws tightened in anticipation. He raised a paw up, silencing the nervously fidgeting and muttering fox behind him.

"Get out," he said, not prying his eyes from the entranced vixen in front of him. The fox behind him swallowed heavily before nodding his head. He quickly disappeared from the hut, the curtains of the door swishing closed behind him and his retreating tattoos.

The stoat was left alone in the wooden-slated hut with the unseeing seer and the heavy smell of incense. He hesitated before walking quietly over the floor, muffling every one of his footsteps. Zenrisk took a seat in front of the vixen, ignoring the various strings of dried herbs and pale bones and rocks carved with unreadable runes that hung around the hut in eerie chimes. He crossed his legs and pushed aside his sheathed sword and long cloak.

For several long minutes, there was only silence, and the Juska leader was left to stare at the seer with his fingers clenched onto his knees. The greying vixen's eyelids fluttered, her mouth parting slightly to whisper shreds of something only she could hear before she closed it again, leaving the stoat to tense up and lean forward each time she did. He was forced to settle back into strained patience with each futile attempt.

Finally, with her eyes still glazed, something slithered up the vixen's spine to straighten her up like she was a flopping cub's doll. She spoke.

"_Where water and forest bind the land_

_Far from the wandering tribes' reach_

_Fate extends its guiding paw_

_To mend a promise breached._

_Two paths twine together, becoming one_

_Neither untroubled or clear_

_But seek out the broken warrior and child_

_To slay your own tribe's fear._

_When fire splits sky, weapons clash_

_Awakening a new and old beast_

_Seek out the Halfling Taggerung_

_And upon triumph, you shall feast!"_

The vixen's voice seemed to swell up within her whole chest, magnifying to a crest she couldn't contain in her frail body, and with a shudder, she went limp. Zenrisk cursed, lunging forward to keep her from landing in her own little incense fire. He held the wilted vixen up and backed away with her just as she abruptly snapped out of her trance. Her eyes widened, and her bony grip latched onto his arms as the seer went into a furious coughing fit.

Her whole thin body shook, the ethereal silence broken by her wheezes and hacking. Zenrisk felt worry creep up his spine as he settled her back in a seat and her coughs continued. Vulpez, he could feel more earrings and scarves shaking than actual weight, and if she died before she could clarify her words or pass on the riddle to someone who could remember it better— The Juska leader swore an oath at himself for not considering her poor health.

"Rangar!" he called. A few moments later, he heard footsteps thudding across the ground, and the round face of a young Juska stoat poked through the curtains.

"Dad?"

"Get ready to find a healer," Zenrisk said, ignoring the shivering of the vixen's body as the cub momentarily gawked at it. His son quickly recovered, snapping his mouth shut. Good cub, Zenrisk thought, unable to dampen his pride as Rangar immediately screwed his brows up in concentration, preparing to listen. He'd damn well earned the singular tattoo across his muzzle. Give him a few years, and he'd be a warrior yet. "If the vixen's on her way out—"

"I'm not dead yet, Zenrisk," the vixen rasped out between coughs. She gave a few more painful hacks, her battered moth-eaten ears shaking, but Zenrisk felt her grip tighten as she pushed away from him and let go. The vixen closed her eyes, taking a few deeps. Her thin chest trembled underneath all her mystic garb. "It'll take more than that ta kill Atiya Fatewinder."

"Excuse me for currently doubtin' it," Zenrisk growled, shoving his calloused fingers towards her thin wrist and taking her pulse. She was too worn to give him her usual dirty look, though small Rangar flinched away. Atiya snatched her paw back, hiding it amongst her shawls. Her eyelids fluttered a few more times.

Satisfied with the vixen not hanging on Hellgate's threshold for the moment, Zenrisk turned to his son at the door. "Rangar, go get 'un of the papers an' quills. Now. We're not forgettin' this."

"Stop, cub," Atiya said. Rangar hesitated in the doorway, torn between the aged seer's command and his father's. Zenrisk narrowed his eyes at both of them.

"Rangar, I told you—"

"I don't do this ta be spiteful, Zenrisk, though pikesteeth knows I can be," Atiya said. She wearily pulled away her paw that was clenching her shawl and straightened her purple headscarf. "I an' the other seers are the only 'uns who can read an' write in this tribe, an' well… neither are goin' ta do me well anymore."

The vixen blinked, her eyes still glazed, and Zenrisk cursed when he realized it wasn't part of the trance. She'd gone blind after it finished.

"Don't tell me you're forgettin' the prophecy," he said sharply, straightening as he remembered Atiya's memory fading after some trances.

The seer managed to give him a withering look through her permanently distant eyes. "I'm seventy seasons older and just as many times capable as you are. I can remember a prophecy, Zenrisk, an' I shall even when you're gone an' your cub is blunderin' around in your place."

Rangar squirmed uncomfortably in the door entrance, though he kept a straight face, and Zenrisk's patience with the vixen abruptly faded as he saw how bare his son's pelt was when compared to his and his wife's. He bore only three tattoos of passage, and the rest of him was still untouched— still immature. And far too young to be considering taking his father's place.

"Trim that tongue of yours, vixen," Zenrisk said in a low voice. Atiya's pierced ears drooped back. "You'll be lucky ta last another five seasons. Is your eyesight the only thing you're losin'?"

Atiya had a begrudging hesitation. She ran one of her paws over her face, her black claws drifting over her now sightless eyes. "My seersight is still 'ere, but… it has been fadin'. I'll be blind in more than 'un way in a few seasons 'o so. But I should be able ta sense in changes in Fate's web for the Taggerung, assumin' you plan ta chase that distant path—"

"Our tribe has not had a Taggerung in decades, Seer, an' I've been searchin' an' waitin' for 'un for ten seasons," Zenrisk snapped, hearing the light mockery in the vixen's voice. "If I have a chance ta bring us ta glory, I'll take it. Whether I need ta find another seer ta take your place 'o not."

"Since you believe I'm dyin' in three seasons, you're goin' ta need some'un else for me ta pass the prophecy on ta," Atiya said. "The signs for the Taggerung en't right yet, an' I have no other seer which ta confer with an' give my wisdom ta, Zenrisk Rath, unless you wish ta find me 'un."

The stoat grinned broadly at her through the sardonic bite in the aged vixen's voice. His bared teeth were filled with the same predatory attitude as a pike's. "Oh, I will. Rangar, 'ead over ta Sarck," he said, and his son perked up at being addressed. "Tell him ta go pay a visit ta our good friend Jaka Jow of the sea tribe. We'll give him woodlander huntin' range in the mountains if he lets Sarck bring back the little Fatewinder in his camp. He's your grandson, en't he?"

Atiya stiffened, her back going rigid. "That _cub_," she said flatly, reigning in the strain in her voice, "hasn't been my grandson since its parents took it twelve seasons ago. Nor since have I set eyes on… him."

"Congratulations; 'cause you're havin' a family reunion til I get the Taggerung 'o you die, either 'un," Zenrisk said, standing. He glanced back at the doorway, still seeing his son lingering in it to watch him and the seer. "Well? What're you waitin' for, brat?" Zenrisk barked. "Sarck en't goin' ta talk ta himself."

Rangar blinked, snapping out of his trance, and the small stoat vanished around the corner of the hut, the curtains hanging from the entrance still swinging in the breeze long after he'd left. Zenrisk gave them a half-smile, adjusting the sword hanging at his waist as he sauntered to the doorway. Give the cub a push, and he could get stinking fast in a hurry.

Behind him, an aged vixen mutely cradled her bony arms, her mouth a grim flat line and her eyes unseeing as she stared at the ground.

* * *

Despite the fading injuries and the strain of a day's hard work, drunken laughter and swearing echoed around the deep quarry's rough rocks. Evening had fallen on the giant sandstone and slate mine and its huge boulders that created its spiny borders. The sounds of late-night metal smithing range through the more desolate sections, hidden fires roaring in pockets in the rock as hammers and sledges were repaired. The wisps of dank wind here and there smelt of slate powder.

Further away from the small festivities, a stocky wharf rat sat in his rock-carved stone outpost, his elbows on the table as he rubbed his eyes. The light from the single dim lantern above them didn't help any with his mood. Across from him, a weasel took another small sip from the vodka flask he'd been sneaking out from his pocket.

"Put the scumsuckin' thin' up, Wringer," the rat growled, massaging his temples. The fresh lines of stitches and bandages across the back of his head flinched with his movements. "I need some bloody advice, not another stupid an' drunken loon."

Wringer gave the rat a look and smoothly put the canteen back down, sneaking it back into his flask pocket.

"I wasn't drinkin', Erskine," he said innocently.

Erskine snorted.

"I'd tell ya where ta stuff that flask for a comment like that, but I en't got the goddamn time." Erskine pulled his huge paw from his head and glared at the other vermin. Wringer was unconcerned with the two slate-grey eyes staring him, and he stared straight back before lazily twisting in the chair and propping his legs up on the brick wall nearby.

"Right then, boss," he said. The weasel's permanently lazy voice never broke, and nor did his easygoing movements and laid-back eyes. Wringer existed in sheer nonchalance.

It was helpful sometimes— particularly when Erskine was tired of dealing with his own cursedly energetic son, who was just learning to walk, or the sludge-headed mine workers who had constant tripe-talking and pissing contests with anything that wore pants— but at others, it just made him want to demote the hell out of the other vermin and kick him down a mineshaft.

This was one of those times.

As Erskine worked his thick jaw back and forth, getting his exhaustion and temper under control— snakespit-flaying tripe; it had been a _long _week— Wringer let him stew, the weasel patting the pockets on his slacks. He gave a half-hearted frown before glancing back to Erskine.

"Ah, I miss smokin'," he said. "T'was a whole hell of a lot better than gettin' drunk, I think. Less of a chance of stumblin' around in the dark an' tumblin' down a hole an' snappin' your neck." Wringer looked Erskine with such complete relaxation that the rat suddenly had the urge to throw something again. "Have any smokes on you?"

Don't kill him, Erskine repeated in his head, keeping his giant paws firmly down by his sides. Don't kill him, or you'll be left alone with everyone else, and you'll regret the mucking rot out of it. The rat held his breath and mentally counted to ten until the impulsive heat left his body. Wringer watched on from his expert slump in the chair with subdued amusement.

"No," Erskine said. A vein near his eye pulsed when it shouldn't have, and Wringer watched the movement with an all-too-familiar languid look. Any other beast would've immediately cringed or gotten right back to work. The weasel just continued slumping in his chair like it was his personal hammock. "An' you're not gettin' any, because ya'd char up your innards an' make yourself useless at haulin' rock, an' every'un would watch ya hack ta death."

"Mmm. Well. That en't really how I want ta die," Wringer said, pausing to give the subject some thought. "'scuse me, partner. I forgot that I'm supposed ta let the sandstone dust ruin my innards instead of a smoke 'o two. 'O a fallen rock. 'O a pissant hordebeast 'o warlord," he said, giving Erskine a sly look.

Erskine ignored the drawled comments of the weasel, feeling the other vermin inwardly begin to harden and take things seriously. Good. It was about bleeding time.

"An' that's exactly what you're sittin' 'ere with me," Erskine said. He rapped his knuckles against the stone table he sat behind, leaning forward on his elbows. "'ow many miners have we lost ta sour an' uppity warlords already? Miners that get cut off 'cause the remainders of the goddamn 'ordes that hid out in their little fortresses got ticked when the woodlanders finished 'em, an' they thought it was the builder's fault? Shalestone," he growled, smacking his forehead again, "they've always been bilge-poor customers, but this season…"

The tiniest hint of a frown tugged at Wringer's mouth, and a barely visible furrow between his eyes signaled that he was thinking deeply. Had Erskine not known him for seasons, he'd say that the weasel hadn't changed at all.

"Nine in total, I think," Wringer said. He raised a paw and ticked off one finger. "We lost two 'o three ta a cave-in, poor bastards, a trio were finished off by an angry lot of 'ordebeasts when they left the mine ta visit kin an' got ambushed on the way back, an' the rest now, they either dug their own graves with quarrels 'o liquor, 'o an adder 'o hordebeast dug it for 'em. T'wasn't a good season, no." Wringer paused. "…you're not thinkin' about the mercs, are you? We kin't afford them."

"Not the regular 'uns, no," Erskine said, "but we have a new proposal. Some of the fox tribes an' military groups are wantin' ta get rid of a few youngsters 'o so. Whether they're troublemakers 'o the tribe's runnin' out of space, they kin't hold onta them. But they're strong. An' they know how ta fight."

Wringer raised an eyebrow. "Are you really willin' ta invite a whole slew of foxes inta the quarry? All at once? If they come out of the tribes 'o militants, I have no doubt they kin fight. But kin they _work? _I have no problem with them pickin' hordebeast pockets," Wringer said, his tone far too casual to match his words, "but if those paws wander inta too many pockets 'o our other workers, they're goin' ta get paid with daggers in the ribs from the rest of our lot."

Erskine's chipped ears twitched in the crisscross of bandages surrounding them. His immense and scarred tail slithered behind him as he shifted and leaned towards Wringer.

"That's what I need your help with, Wringer. Work somebeast enough an' let 'em know where the order is, an' any thievin' 'o brawlin' above average is goin' ta disappear. 'course, a few bodies are goin' ta _accidentally _end up the bottom of a mineshaft 'o two by the time this is over an' every'un's gotten ta know each other," Erskine said. "I have no delusions about that. But we might be able ta keep down the buryin' ta a minimum, includin' the amount we're havin' ta do thanks ta goddamn 'ordebeasts."

Wringer glanced back at the stone wall of the outpost, slowly pushing his stretched legs against it to tilt his chair for a moment. Erskine could see thoughts running through his tan head. The weasel's ears tilted back.

"Erskine."

"What?" the rat said. Wringer still firmly stared at the wall.

"…promise me that all of these foxes comin' in are goin' ta be doin' so on their own, an' without chains hangin' around their wrists." Wringer looked back at Erskine. "I help run a quarry. It en't _anything_ else."

Erskine made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, feeling his ire rising at the mere mention of the weasel's suggestion. The faint sounds of drunken carousing in the distance from the relaxing miners didn't keep any, and neither did the quick thought of his cub curled up in his own bed.

"An' _I'm_ the 'un you help ta run it," Erskine growled, standing from behind the table and laying one paw across it. He glared at Wringer. "Not everythin' about this business is honest, but the pay is, an' Hellgates, it's stayin' that way. Anymore rottin' suggestions 'o accusations, weasel?"

Despite the threatening loom of the angry rat and his shadow blotting out the lantern light, Wringer actually seemed to relax more. Some tension Erskine hadn't even seen stiffening his body vanished from him. He gave a tilted grin towards his partner, even while the spark of fury still lingered in the wharf rat's face.

"None, boss." Wringer managed to slump even lower in his chair, like his spine was melting. "Just that we ought ta clear out more room away from the adder dens if we're gettin' that many foxes in a season 'o two."

Wringer gave a tilted smile, sneaking his vodka flask out of his pocket and lazily tipping it towards his leaned back muzzle.

"It'd be a pity ta feed our new fighters ta serpents afore we even begin."


	2. Chapter 1

_10 Seasons Later_

_Post-Prologue_

* * *

The stone walls and floors of Greyspire could grow freezing cold, even when it wasn't winter. Nobeast enjoyed walking over the rock paths around the courtyard when the clumps of snow and slick sheets of water from the open ground leaked onto the path and froze. It became slippery and hard to navigate, biting into toes and soaking the edges of worn brown habits and cloaks. There was cursing and shrieking aplenty when even the sturdiest-footed vermin slid across the slick stone and were forced to clutch the nearby walls for balance, their friends laughing uproariously at them and watching their own steps.

Ashclaw still would've preferred walking all over the courtyard path than actually wading through the squishy snow drifts in the courtyard. At least traveling by the path usually meant you were heading to the kitchen or work or something, he thought. The pine marten grimaced as he took another step forward in the snow, sinking in up to his knee. The snow scratched at his coarse pants and leg wraps.

Everybeast _loved_ the cold, Ashclaw thought, taking another step forward and ignoring the amused looks being sent his way from anyone who bothered to pause. Most of them were on their way to other rooms in the fortress. The pale grey sky that loomed over the courtyard seemed to merge Greyspire's reaching turrets and walls into the horizon, the illusion broken only by the bright red flag waving at the apex of the once-abbey's spire.

A few yet frozen ice flecks in the oncoming spring dug their petite blades into Ashclaw's leg. Of course, they conveniently managed to slip down a tiny spot in his leg wraps and began to melt a cold trickle down his skin.

"…an' once again, more proof that every'un enjoys wadin' around in snow," Ashclaw muttered, shaking his leg. He could feel icicles congealing in his fluffy tail.

"Shut up, Ash," the smaller marten in front of him said. She lifted her habit robe up higher around her waist to keep it from dragging in the snow. "You whine so much. I wouldn't have gone an' got you if I could reach this myself."

Ashclaw almost rolled his eyes at seeing the layered pants identical to his underneath her hiked-up robes, except with her belt jerked twice as tight to keep them from flopping down. He and his sister shared a lot of clothes, but it didn't keep her from finding more and being ridiculous about it. Wearing a habit that could get soaked easily and a set of nice travel pants that'd keep you dry at the same time, and then refusing to take off the habit when you had to walk through snow… it made so much sense, Ashclaw thought sardonically, continuing to trudge through the slush. A stray nip of wind bit at his nose.

Actually, it probably did make some kinda twisted adolescent-maid sense to Cinderfang.

Up ahead of him, as if she could read his mind, Cinderfang's mouth twisted into a frown as she approached her destination. She stopped in front of the tall chunk of granite that was planted in the center of the courtyard.

"There."

Ashclaw looked towards her after shaking a clingy clump of snow from his leg. Cinderfang had walked straight to the chipped pillar of rock in the middle of the courtyard, and she was struggling to keep both parts of her habit robe from drooping into the snow with one paw. The other was pointing up towards the very top of the jagged, partially carved rock— from which her bag was hanging from a ledge.

Back when Greyspire had been Icebloom, an abbey filled with woodlanders, they'd been trying to carve out some statues here and there to make their cold home more appealing. They had gotten as far as getting a pillar of granite in the middle of the courtyard and chiseling out the beginnings of a reaching arm and round ears when Lord Kevern had happened all over their tails and tossed them out into the mountains.

Needless to say, the statue— whoever or whatever it was supposed to be— wasn't finished. Ashclaw glanced at the ears perking from the layers of rock as Cinderfang fidgeted next to him. If you squinted, it almost looked like the beginnings of a weasel.

…or a ferret. Talk about unintentional premonition on the part of the woodlanders, Ashclaw thought.

It still didn't keep everybeast from using the incomplete block of granite for lots of useful things. Like chucking snowballs at it. Or stealing his short little sister's bag for the Hellgates of it and throwing it far out of her reach. Ashclaw's fingers flexed unpleasantly.

Cinderfang lowered her paw as her brother came to a stop next to her. He lifted his head to watch her satchel slowly swing back and forth, suspended on the rock by its shoulder strap. Its surface was already frosted with ice.

"Cinder, what 'appened?"

Cinderfang rolled her eyes as if Ashclaw was asking her why the north was cold. She tried to give a flounce of her habit, but it ended up a clumsy sodden flop.

"I was just goin' ta breakfast, an' Breade an' some other grubby male started gettin' really mouthy with me— you know, how 'ey think it's clever ta call me 'Miss Matched'—" Cinderfang gestured at her different colored eyes, one hazel and one light brown, and almost dropped her robe in the snow again. She caught it with a muffled yelp.

Next to her, her older brother studied the uneven sides of the tall rock with the same dual-colored eyes. Ashclaw ignored her continuous prattling and began to climb up the side of the incomplete effigy. His fur stood on end in the first moment his paws met the cold rock.

"—an' so then Breade got mad, even though it was his fault for harassin' me, an' the pudgeball thought it'd be alright ta try ta take my ba— Ashclaw, are you even listenin'?" Cinderfang whined, putting her paws on her hips while they were still gripping her habit. The other pine marten slipped his foot into a crevice on the unfinished statue, scaling another increment with his eyes focused on the hanging bag.

"'course I am; doen't it look like I'm listenin'?" Ashclaw said, stretching an arm out for the bag. He had all his weight hanging on one arm and his legs, and he could feel his toes slipping. The marten's voice ratcheted up a few pitches when some snow managed to slip down the side of his pants. Fragshards; weren't these things supposed to keep him _dry?_

Cinderfang muttered some sarcastic comment he didn't catch, and the martenmaid glanced over to the courtyard paths, where the rest of Greyspire's residents were walking along with no regard for anything but their own business. Laughter echoed from nearby opening and closing doors as friends and families pulled each other in from the cold. Some of her snark quietly deflated. She looked up at her brother with nervous mismatched eyes.

"Be careful," she said, wringing her habit robe in her claws. "Don't fall."

Ashclaw spat out a piece of ice that had come dislodged from the granite block's surface, making a face as he finally clamped his paw around Cinderfang's bag. Got it! He thought. There was a popping of cloth seams as his grip loosened and he slid down further, straining Cinder's bag.

Now, if he could just get down without falling off the top of a jagged rock twice his height and eating ice and rock.

"I'm tryin' not ta, Cinder," Ashclaw grunted, working the bag's strap free from the roughly hewn arm of the would-have-been statue. He managed to get it free, the weight of the satchel making his arm drop for a moment, but the pine marten managed to clamber back down the stone in one piece. Cinderfang eagerly reached out for him, failing to keep her habit skirts up at last. Her brown robes dropped down and splayed across the snow like darkened flower petals.

"I'm glad you din't break it," she said, reaching for her bag.

"You're welcome," Ashclaw said, shaking his head to rid himself of any excess ice flecks in his dark fur. His fingers ached with cold like the rock was still pressed into them.

"Ivarr got madder than spitespit when you just messed up the last 'un," Cinderfang said, ignoring Ashclaw. "'e just about threw a fit."

Ivarr hadn't bought her the bag after half a season for working for the merciless torch-maker Frostooth, Ashclaw thought, remembering the fox's swift and hard fingers that were permanently dipped in soot and oil. They hadn't felt any better when the pine marten was getting prodded by them and receiving barked criticisms for his skills. In fact, Ashclaw thought— some irritation gnawing at his scruff and nagging his ears— Ivarr the rat seemed to vanish very quickly whenever Cinderfang needed more than casual company or a few dagger-wielding and sewing lessons.

Ashclaw's distraction kept him from handing off the bag to Cinderfang, and she stepped forward to take it from his clasped paws. Ashclaw reflexively lifted the satchel above his head.

"Hey!" Cinderfang protested. Ashclaw blinked in surprise as she stood on her tiptoes, struggling to grab the bag. "That's not fair! The rock's been keepin' my bag out of reach away all mornin', an' _now_ I'm gettin' the same treatment from you?"

"I guess you are," Ashclaw said, lifting the satchel higher and watching with amusement as it slid right through a jumping Cinderfang's grip. Snow splattered across her habit robes and Ashclaw's legs when she landed. The martenmaid growled in frustration, clawing at part of Ashclaw's chest and trying to get a boost up, and only succeeded in making both of the vermin's fur messier and their clothes wetter.

Cinderfang was a solid two heads shorter than her sibling, and until recent seasons, it had been two-and-a-half. Ashclaw quite enjoyed the distance. Well, he mostly enjoyed taking _advantage _of said distance.

Finally, either Cinderfang managed to jump extra high in the snow, or Ashclaw's arms drifted down, but the younger marten snatched her bag back from her tormentor. She gave him a solid elbow in the ribs and dirty look for good measure, tucking the bag to her chest and groaning as she looked down and saw her wet robes.

"Oh, great. Thanks, Ash! I owe you 'un!" Cinderfang said, lifting a corner of her robe and wrinkling her nose in disgust. Ashclaw felt like the sarcasm was thick enough to be flung at his face.

"I know. C'mon, now, we're missin' breakfast," he said, herding her out of the courtyard. She offered a few more grumbles and barbed remarks, pulling away from his paws to walk on her own, but Cinderfang had no objection with returning to the courtyard trail and heading for the kitchen.

Ashclaw frowned as she pushed open the door in front of him, heading into the hall with her satchel slung over her shoulder. Her robes were practically sopping wet around the edges, leaving trails of water droplets across Greyspire's floor. It was already dampened enough with the footsteps of other beasts coming from the outside, but Ashclaw hoped Cinderfang didn't get stinking sick. It'd been bad enough last winter when she'd gotten a raging fever and been bedridden for a week, her eyes glazed and fur frazzled with her uneven breathing and heat— not to mention that he'd been too busy working to watch her…

The pine marten forced the wriggling worms of worry out of his chest and sped up, moving alongside Cinderfang. She would be fine, he thought. Vulpez knew that she and everyone else in Greyspire would have been dead seasons ago if getting a little cold and wet killed 'em.

"Ashclaw?" Cinderfang said. Ashclaw turned to look at her as she finished peeking in her bag. The last tinge of a grimace and something else vanished from her face. Ashclaw felt his fur squirm.

"What?" he said.

"Well, if you were 'un of my teachers— an' I turned up ta class with my book a _little_ ripped, so I couldn't read the lesson an' had ta go 'elp my brother work instead after gettin' a whippin'—"

The two vermin turned a corner.

"Your book en't ripped, Cinderfang," Ashclaw said, taking another look at her. "You'd be cheerin' if it was. You bloody hate readin' an' scribin' class."

"What do you— ah, damnit," Cinderfang muttered, dropping her last attempt to look innocent. Her face turned sour. "Is it that stinkin' obvious? I think if I managed ta act it up a little, Sumarl would buy it, 'specially if I blamed Breade an' his brother."

"You need ta learn somethin', Cinderfang, 'o you're goin' ta get stupid compared ta every'un else," Ashclaw chided. He decided to stop this sulky fit before it began. "It's bad enough I kin barely sound out my letters; that's the reason I'm stuck workin'. Lord Kevern doen't want us ta get eaten up by any woodlanders 'o their lot in any way, whether fightin' 'o not. Besides," he said, quickly changing the topic when he saw Cinderfang's eyes light up and her fur fluff at the mention of Kevern's name, "you won't get ta blame Breade an' his kin, because I'm goin' ta have a little talk with 'em."

The sour expression disappeared from Cinderfang's face. Having a 'talk' meant more than one thing: it would either be a verbal beating, or a physical one. Seeing the size of Breade's brother, Ashclaw hoped he was going to deal with the former or catch Breade alone. He could fight if pushed, but—

"Are you goin' ta do it now?" Cinderfang said. Ashclaw recoiled at the eagerness in her voice.

"I don't think so," Ashclaw said. It'd be better to catch Breade and his sibling in a crowded hall or one with more witnesses; there'd be less of a chance of a brawl. Vulpez, why not just dump a gallon of pepper into their food or ale at breakfast and be done with it? "I'm goin' ta give 'em a little bit."

Cinderfang took Ashclaw's words as something else than caution, and she nodded her head in almost smug satisfaction. "Alright, then."

Ashclaw inwardly winced at the proud look on her face.

After a few more turns in Greyspire's interlocking maze of halls and torchlight, the pair of pine martens could hear the sounds of cutlery clacking, talking, and tankards clunking against tables coming from a set of double doors up ahead. The vermin perked up, Ashclaw licking his lips as he smelled the fires burning and the scent of bread and meat wafting through the air. He and Cinderfang pushed through the doors.

The instant they stepped foot within the long, rectangular hall— its thick dining tables already being filled to the brim with hundreds of jabbering, arguing, eating vermin of all species and ages— Ashclaw and Cinderfang immediately went to join the shifting mass around a line of tables that was the waiting queue for food. Ashclaw dodged around a one-eyed fox as she left the line with a bowl of soup, her harried mate following her, and the marten grinned as Cinderfang waded through a whole gaggle of mink cubs that were busy tripping up everybeast who passed by.

She was just dying to kick them out of the way or do _something_, Ashclaw thought, inwardly smirking as he navigated around a bulky rat. But frostbite, this was what happened when you hit the breakfast line when the families started getting up. Waking up before dawn with the rest of the scouts and lone workers was the way to go. Cinderfang needed to learn to wake up earlier… or maybe he needed to confront Breade's brother to prevent more delays by stolen bags.

Ashclaw felt far less nonchalant about the whole thing after that last thought and when a weasel nearby almost elbowed him in the face. At least the parents of the giggling mink brood finally summoned them with a few calls and shepherded their spawn towards a close table, plates of stringy bird meat in paw.

The thin-shouldered stoat in front of Ashclaw made it to the food table. Various plates of carved-up ptarmigan, ice fish, and broth made with sparse vegetables filled the length of the sprawling table. On the other side, a whole team of other vermin loomed protectively over the plates, some wearing habits with the sleeves tied up and others going with whatever the tundrateeth they could find to put on. Pots and pans still clattered in the kitchen a room away, roared orders punctuating them, and a column of steam poured out the top of the half-open door.

A roughened ferret with his sleeves rolled up to reveal lines of deep diagonal scars leaned over the table when he saw the stoat step forth.

"I do dungeon work," the stoat said, already eying the plates and choosing one. In Greyspire, no work, no food. "Lower level."

Ashclaw stiffened up when he heard the vermin's answer. He glanced around him, making sure Cinderfang wasn't within a five foot radius of the stoat, but his slightly bristling fur was calmed as the ferret across from them gave a bored nod, and the stoat took a bowl of broth and slipped away. Ashclaw swallowed his grimace as the mustelid disappeared. Lord Kevern's scum, he thought, moving up.

"Torch binder an' scout," Ashclaw said, automatically addressing the ferret in front of him. "Took my shift this mornin' afore dawn." He took a platter of smoked fish strips and a tankard and left to find a seat, pushing through the remaining crowd that milled around the serving table.

Ashclaw momentarily struggled to find a place, the marten hovering behind the rows of sitting vermin helping themselves to their food at the dining tables, but a waving arm at the other end of the flagged him down. The vermin headed over and took a seat next to Cinderfang. She prodded him in the shoulder with her fork.

"Took you long enough."

"I enjoyed the waitin', believe me," Ashclaw said, sneaking his own fork over and stabbing a piece of roll on Cinderfang's plate. She yelped and slapped his paw when she felt Ashclaw jerking away with her food.

"Hey!" she snarled. Cinderfang grabbed his wrist, setting her claws into it, and stuffed his fork— and the piece of roll— into her mouth. She shot him a grin filled with teeth afterwards, the fork's handle sticking out from between her fangs. Cinderfang looked more pike than marten.

Ashclaw was about to try and jerk his cutlery out of her mouth when the vermin sitting next to him cleared their throat.

"So no 'good mornin'?"

"Gbood mornwin'," Cinderfang said, releasing Ashclaw's fork and speaking through a mouthful of hard bread. Ashclaw quickly withdrew his fork while he could, beginning to work on his own plate of food.

"'ello, Vermund."

The ermine next to Ashclaw craned his head, amused and exasperated by Cinderfang's answer. With spring coming, he was a splotched bunch of both white and brown fur, like one beast was tearing free from another's pelt wrapped around their body. Ashclaw wasn't surprised to see him looking faintly harassed. He always got annoyed around shedding time, the poor bugger. Sometimes it took the tight decorative bangles clipped around his wrists to remind Ashclaw what size Vermund actually was under all his winter fluff.

"No more sprained ankles makin' you two late, I hope?" Vermund said, stabbing his piece of bread with a dagger. He had never really learned that forks existed, Ashclaw thought, even when he got a damned bowl of soup for breakfast— and then he wouldn't bother to get a spoon. Only Vermund would knife up a bowl of broth.

Cinderfang rolled her eyes, making sure to keep her own fork ready for stabbing if Ashclaw tried to take more of her food. "Seriously, Vermund, that was a 'un time thin'; I haven't tried climbin' up the walls again, an' I en't a little cub anymore—"

"Clumsiness en't limited ta pups, Cinderfang," Vermund said. He lightly waved his dagger, the bread now suddenly missing. "But hey, if you'd like ta tempt fate, go on. Vulpez knows your brother's done it enough, an' look how _he_ ended up."

Ashclaw tried to eat with dignity over Cinderfang's giggles. Vermund was a mere season older than him; he had no right to be talking. Especially with the kinds of tripe he sprouted while drunk. "Alright, I tripped up a few times," Ashclaw said. "'course, you never did. You always had a _grip_ on the situation."

It took Vermund a moment or two to understand, Cinderfang getting it first and silently sniggering into her paws, but he did an instant later. "Ha ha, Ashclaw," he said, the ermine looking down at his three-fingered right paw. He'd lost the final two fingers to frostbite Vulpez knew how many seasons ago. "I'm dyin' over here."

"I 'ope not," Cinderfang said, finishing off the last drink in her tankard. "No 'un wants ta clean up a dead body. Ash, hang on a minute; I have ta go get more ale," she said, tipping her empty tankard up and down. Ashclaw nodded his head in the middle of chewing a fish strip, and Cinderfang left the table.

For a minute or two, there was a pleasant silence as both the remaining vermin just focused on eating. Ashclaw was in the middle of watching a scarf-wearing rat duo argue animatedly about which mountain pass to take come summer when the pine marten realized Vermund wasn't moving. The ermine was just staring down at his bowl. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something for a moment and began to turn towards his friend, but he snapped back to his original position a second later. Ashclaw frowned, slowly straightening up from his plate.

"…Vermund?"

"What? Ah, yeah. Hey, Ash," Vermund said. He quietly cleared his throat. Ashclaw could feel the ermine's eyes purposely avoiding him. The pine marten's fur began to prickle and stand on end. "I…"

"What?"

"Well, I… you know how I was talkin' about quitin' bein' a warrior a while ago?" Vermund said, straightening his words out when Ashclaw gave him nothing but a look of confusion. The ermine finally looked and met Ashclaw's mismatched eyes, his own hesitation breaking. "I did it."

Ashclaw blinked in surprise. "That's bloody great for you," Ashclaw said. The words rang oddly hollow. For some reason, he could find summon no joy out of the sudden cold feeling forming in his stomach. "No more snow trudgin' an' stranger-stabbin', I guess."

"I wasn't that good at fightin' ta start with, an' I en't ever been as good as I was afore I lost my fingers, y'know," Vermund said, continuing on like a floodgate had been snapped, his brown eyes far too shifty to be asking for real eye contact. "Gettin' severe frostbite once, it… makes you nervous. There's a lot less of a chance ta live longer when you're a fighter too long, especially here in the north, so I couldn't really stick with it. I needed somethin' ta keep me closer ta home an' alive," he said. The ermine almost sounded like he was pleading for acceptance. "I mean, I want ta start a family 'un day, so if I was busy doin' somethin' that might get me killed…"

Vermund paused and licked one of his lips.

"I took an open job in the dungeon."

Ashclaw felt his face go blank.

"It's bein' a sentry an' part-time guard only," Vermund said, swiftly moving to reassure Ashclaw when he saw the look on his face. "I'm not goin' ta be doin' any of the— I just don't want you an' Cinder ta get the wrong idea, that's all, Ash."

"We won't," Ashclaw said, and he heard his voice come out flat and calm of its own accord. He abruptly couldn't connect the rate of his heartbeat to what his emotions were supposed to be. "Especially not Cinderfang."

Vermund moved to say something else, the ermine sensing a change in Ashclaw's bearing that the marten couldn't even feel. Just as his three-fingered paw was about to light on Ashclaw's arm, Cinderfang cheerfully came waltzing around the side of the table and tumbled back into her seat again. Both vermin flinched away.

"Sorry for takin' so long," Cinderfang said, cheerfully sitting her refilled tankard down. Ale almost spilled over the edges. "There was some other stupid marten in front of me who hadn't figured out that 'e was supposed ta move along with the line, so— what's with you two?" Cinderfang stopped, frowning as she saw Ashclaw and Vermund's discomfort. Her ears pinned back when Vermund uneasily cleared his threat.

"Well—"

"Vermund lost a bet, an' now 'e has ta eat a piece of fish," Ashclaw said, breaking in. Cinderfang blinked in surprise— the suspicion not entirely cleared from her face— but she gave a sympathetic grin at the ermine, who was recoiling in disgust in Ashclaw's words.

"Ouch, Vermund. 'ow'd you manage ta agree ta that?"

"Believe me, I didn't exactly see this comin', an' it en't willin'," Vermund said, looking wary as Ashclaw prodded a strip of fish. There was a frigid lake not too far from Greyspire, and patrols were organized now and then to go split the ice and haul out the fish beneath. The fish meat was cut, dried, and smoked into tough strips, and then packed away in scouts' ration bags and the kitchen cupboards.

To say Vermund hated it with all of his being was an understatement.

To say Ashclaw wasn't feeling sympathetic for him at the moment due to the burn of betrayal running through the marten's offbeat heart was another one.

Ashclaw promptly tipped his plate over Vermund's bowl of soup and scraped off half of his fish into the broth. Chunks of dried northern pike splashed into the warm liquid. The ermine looked on with absolute horror. Ashclaw felt some raw satisfaction with the sting that came along with it.

He'd have a half empty belly for the rest of the day until dinner, Ashclaw thought. But after how Vermund had just told him about the job he'd taken, despite all his promises before that he'd never consider it; after knowing the job was going to keep his only cubhood friend from being around them most of the day—

"You were really takin' that bet seriously, whatever it was," Cinderfang said dryly, watching Vermund poke at the dried meat in his bowl with misery. Ashclaw coldly stabbed one of the remaining fish pieces on his own plate. The marten kept his eyes fixed on Vermund's grimacing face.

"Yeah, we are," Ashclaw said. His words were far too calm and nonchalant. Vermund gave a wince that had nothing to do with the fish bobbing in his food.

Cinderfang shrugged, though she gave odd looks to the both of them— the kind that Ashclaw knew would mean him being cornered and interrogated late— and Vermund began to halfheartedly drink his soup down, his tail bristling and trying to inch between his legs. He muttered a curse when he got to one of the fish pieces, his face paling, but he kept eating. Food was food; you didn't ever waste it, no matter what it tasted like.

Some of that statement could also be applied to escape routes from certain situations.

Ashclaw was almost ready to finish off his food and leave much earlier than usual when Cinderfang tilted her head, a slight pout on her face. She crossed her arms after seeing a singular empty table at the front of the dining hall. All of the chairs there were empty, and no vermin sat at its decoratively carved sides… for good reason. The table wasn't intended for Greyspire's usual residents or visitors.

"Where's Lord Kevern?"

* * *

In the upper floors of the fortress-turned-abbey, a cloaked rat limped to the outside of a broad door. She adjusted the clasp of the pike's tooth brooch around her neck, steadying her slighted leg with a wooden staff. Reina took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She stood outside the door, gathering something within herself, and the red claw symbol painted on the wood seemed to burn into it. Her claws curled tighter around her staff.

After a few quiet moments, the rat opened her eyes. Reina drew herself up with a previously absent regality and opened the door. She moved forth with a light bow of her head.

"You summoned me, milord?"

* * *

_A.N: Greyspire en't the best place ta live, but hey, you kin deal with it. An' if you don't want ta, I suppose there's always the lovely bit of freezin' snow an' ice outside. So many lovely options up 'ere in the north, there are. In case you're wonderin', this is Ashclaw speakin', an' no, I en't a girl. Vulpez, I don't know where you'd get that idea from. Cinder's the 'un who does all the whinin'; it en't me!_

_But speakin' of odd ideas, Saraa keeps sayin' that some of you lot readin' should know me, even though I en't got a clue who anybeast is. She also wants me ta give a shout-out to 'Kilroy of 1918' if 'e's hangin' around, whoever 'e is. She said somethin' about an idea in an old conversation comin' true… Ta be honest, all of her smirkin' an' odd looks lately haven't exactly been makin' me comfortable…_

_Anyway, feel ta review an' make predictions an' snide comments._

(A.N: Recognize anyone? No? Anyway, the next chapter or two may be late due to scholastic issues/travels I overlooked recently, so I'm posting this slightly early to try and make up for it. Apologies to my readers. -SL)


	3. Chapter 2

_10 Seasons Later_

_Post-Prologue_

* * *

For a few brief minutes, the sound of clanging hammers, shouted orders, and rocks being loaded onto lifts and sledges ceased, and there was only the uproarious chatter of all the workers eating lunch. Many of the vermin groaned in relief at the brief break, cracking their necks and stretching their sandstone-dusted arms before they dug into their packed meals. Some of them sat atop the sledges and wooden frames that formed the support system outside the tunnel mouths, their legs and tails dangled down aimlessly from their perches.

There was more than one raucous curse and kick as other passing miners jerked at hanging tails, roaring with laughter as their coworkers swore and kicked at their faces. The smell of musk, sweat, dirt, and fixed food filled the air.

One brawny, thick-jawed stoat made the mistake of trying to jerk at the ragged half-tail daggling from one of the support frames.

_Crack._

A foot caught him straight on the underside of the lower jaw. He yelped, almost dropping his wrapped lunch in the dirt. Snickers and jilted laughter came from the frame above him.

"'ey!" he whined, rubbing at his face like an overgrown cub.

But that was just what he was, Farflit thought, ignoring the stoat's whimpers and continuing to eat his lunch. Still, that might've been an insult to pups; a cub would be sharper-witted. The grey fox's remaining shreds of his tail twitched, and he pulled it up to rest next to his legs to avoid more tugs. Next to him, a rat kept snickering.

"Oi, he whapped ye good that time, Gittem," the rat called down, leaning over with his hoop earrings swinging in his ragged ears. Around them, the lunchtime traffic continued. Everybeast was glad to get out of the mines.

The stoat below pouted, his eyes blinking stupidly. He'd recovered quickly from his pain; his thick skull took most of the blows he received on a daily basis. "S'not funny, Laikan, I dunno why he kicked me!"

"You pulled my tail. What were you expectin'?" Farflit said, picking through his packed lunch and cracking a bird bone between his teeth. Laikan sniggered a few more times nearby— with his own heavily tattooed tail curled firmly around his waist, where he'd put it the instant he sat down. Farflit was almost tempted to start taking imitating him. Almost.

"You were 'posed ta laugh 'o somethin'," Gittem said, still frowning stupidly and looking up. He had wide set eyes under a thick brow, had an even thicker jaw and sense of dullness, and Farflit was convinced a fish held more intelligence in its face. 'Gittem' was named after the first thing a crew of shrews had screamed at him when the stoat had accidentally walked right into their camp— 'GET 'EM!' "You dun take jokes real nice, Farflit."

"I don't take stupidity well," Farflit said. He knew that Gittem couldn't control his strength, and the stoat would've probably yanked him out of his seat the second round by his tail if he'd thought the first joke was funny.

Laikan snorted, shoving a piece of his bread into his mouth. He started digging through his sailor-style pants pockets a few minutes later, sending all the inked sea serpents and fish along his back to quiver with his shoulder blades. "Ifth nod like ye tadke anythfing well, you sonuva— goddamnit, I don't haf a light 'o cigarettde!"

The rat padded at his pockets a few more times, eyebrows arching in frustration as he found no cigarette or flint. He gave a foul oath through his mouthful of bread. Farflit tipped his muzzle into his ale tankard as the bulky Gittem— still watching from below like a waylaid cub— helpfully raised one giant paw.

"I have 'un." He hesitated. "But I dunno if Erskine likes it when every'un smokes…"

"Aw, screw it, it's lunch," Laikan said, perking up at the mention of a light. "The boss'll only keelhaul me if he catches me smokin' on the blasted job; anytime else doesn't matter." The rat scrambled to stuff the remaining crusts and bones of his meal into his crooked lunch pail, and Farflit neatly crunched off the last segment of a woodpigeon wing and drained his ale tankard. Both of the vermin clambered down from the supports, joining Gittem on the ground.

Laikan easily balanced himself and slid down the wooden beams easily, and Farflit leaped from one of the lower supports and landed in a crouch and puff of sandstone powder. He automatically checked the hidden danger at his waist when he landed before standing, his legs and tail getting another coating of the ground sandstone and shale dust that coated the mine and quarry. The grey fox didn't think he'd been totally clean for seasons.

"So, where's this light an' smoke?" Laikan said, spreading his arms and gesturing at Gittem's midsection. The stoat towered over everybeast, hauling sheer bundles and loads by himself that would even give the thick-built Farflit and determined Laikan trouble while they were teamed up. Gittem was tall enough, and seeing Farflit was broader for a fox than he was taller for one—

Farflit avoided any maneuvers that would result in him having to get in Gittem's face.

Gittem scratched the back of his head, looking puzzled as he gave Laikan his flint.

"Well, I has a light, but I dun't really have any smokes…"

Laikan looked crestfallen before he became irritated. "Scumsuckin' bilgewater, you coulda told me that before you got me hopes up! Stinkin' stoat…" He rolled his eyes at the vermin's confusion. "Yer not that sharp, Gittem. C'mon, you stupid oaf, we might as well sit with ye since you made us get down from our seats." Laikan thumbed up at the structures behind them.

"'kay," Gittem said, lumbering off to find a seat, and Laikan and Farflit followed in his wake, passing by many other miners at rest with their pickaxes set aside and lunches being polished off.

"You need to stop thinkin' you speak for every'un, Laikan," Farflit said, stepping over a discarded hammer and slipping into his stride next to the rat. Laikan raised his eyebrows.

"What now? Eh, shut up, Farflit," he said, giving a light elbow at the fox's ribs while making sure not to touch him. Fifteen solid seasons of military training back at his home village hadn't exactly left the grey fox with the kindest or dullest reflexes, though he could control them. Farflit still knew he was being mocked by the extra careful regard Laikan held him in— even if it was subtly. "If you'd have 'ad a problem, ye would've not moved an inch."

The tiniest hint of a smile tugged up the side of Farflit's mouth, and it faded away as Laikan and Gittem found a seat alongside two huge sheets of slate they had mined not two days ago. Gittem settled with his huge back against one of the rocks, contentedly unwrapping his lunch and munching on his sandwich now that he had company. Farflit and Laikan just threw themselves down wherever they could find a seat, Laikan slumping on a log with his typical disrespect for everything, and Farflit sitting with his back straight and legs crossed.

Laikan's true nature would always show through when he relaxed, Farflit thought, laying his paws on his knees, even if the tattoos weren't a screaming indication. The fox automatically stored away the tiny feeling of disgust and disapproval that always came when he saw the fanged serpent tattoo that wrapped around Laikan's upper arm. It was a built-in reaction. There was no use to keep regarding it when it had become mostly obsolete; Laikan was no longer a threat.

The rat hadn't been a boat that flew that flag for the past fifteen seasons, but Farflit still remained alert. Old habits were called old habits for a reason. Sometimes force was needed to break them if they arose.

"Ye know," Laikan said, casually flexing his arm as Gittem gulped down a piece of bread, "if you want a tattoo, I could get you 'un, Farflit."

"I'd consider it if I was ever the same level of drunk an' senseless you were when you got yers," Farflit said. Laikan laughed, sounding like a seagull that had inhaled two buckets worth of broken glass.

"Din't Janno ask you for a tattoo?" Gittem said, tilting his head. The twisted rib of some small fish or bird in his sandwich stuck out the side of his mouth before he clumsily brushed it aside.

"Vulpez, Janno's asked for just about everythin'; doesn't make me want ta do any of his requests," Laikan said, rolling his eyes. He felt Farflit's grimace next to him and turned to grin at the grey fox. "…but some'un else might. Yer reeeeal fond 'o Janno, aren't you, Farflit?"

"Don't begin to brin' up that squirmin' brat," Farflit growled, feeling a sudden urge to start massaging his temples or hauling sandstone; the obnoxious ratling couldn't follow him into the mines. "Erskine needs to raise his blood 'o send him elsewhere. He's nothin' but a burden here."

"Harsh, Farflit," Laikan said, not looking sympathetic in the least. "But right on the goddamn coppers." The rat wiggled his fingers, shifting his arm and making one of the red fish wrapped around his bicep flop. "Ye know that that little bugger came ta me an' started askin' for a knuckle inkin' 'o somethin', an' the boss just about docked my pay an' thrashed me when I did 'un line? Vulpez, all was tryin' ta do was discourage that simperin' snotball from gettin' a tattoo!"

Laikan's irritation broke into anger as he shook his paw at the air. "Most of the cubs back off after they get a taste 'o the pain— an' Janno was blubberin' like a concussed woodlander straight off, lemme tell ye that— but Erskine went all off the goddamn deep end," the vermin said. "You'd think I was tryin' ta shiv his spawn's throat with the inkin' needle, the way he went on about it!"

Laikan snorted, sourly crossing his arms and leaning back further in his seat.

"If he was _my_ son, now," the rat said, spitting out the corner of his mouth, "I'd have already given him a set 'o two of lashin's he wouldn't have been able ta forget."

Farflit was giving a nod of agreement and getting ready to comment on a similar tactic his mentor had used when he sensed a beast approaching from the back— and long after he should've originally heard them. The fox's scruff bristled, but he had no time for alarm before an empty lunch bag was neatly tossed down between Gittem and Laikan. The rat blinked in surprise while Gittem gave an awkward wave, and Farflit heard a far, far too familiar voice.

"Well, you an' Farflit are 'ardly beasts fond of pups, so I wouldn't worry about havin' 'un anytime soon. I don't think Janno'd make it through the season with either of you as a father."

All of the miners gave a quick salute as the lanky body of a weasel stepped over the log they were sitting on, took a seat, and melted down the side of the same log in all in one movement. He let his arms hang back over the seat, a sharpened fish rib sticking out from between his teeth.

"Wringer, sir," Laikan said, letting his salute at ease. The weasel overseer gave him a lazy wave in response… which seemed to mark _everything_ he did, Farflit thought. The fox shifted over away a few inches. He didn't trust a beast that looked the exact same as the day he'd met them eight seasons ago.

"'ello, Laikan," Wringer said, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. Farflit felt like their seat was now a goddamn camping spot with the way the other vermin was splayed across it. "Anythin' goin' on, Gittem? Farflit? I'm surprised Janno hasn't paid you another visit yet," Wringer said, turning his nonchalant eyes to Farflit. The fox remained cold and composed. "He's quite fond of you, y'know."

Laikan snickered. Farflit was beginning to wonder how many times his mother had dropped the rat on his soft skull as a cub to get him to laugh at so many stupidities. "'Fond' an' 'Farflit' aren't words that go tagether, but then again, Janno does go after 'im a lot more than he does the rest 'o us…" Laikan let his words trail off suggestively, and the rat jerked away to avoid Farflit's elbow at his kidney.

"I don't intend to feed his delusions any more than another Mavern fox 'o vermin would," Farflit said, ignoring the smug look on Laikan's face at his clumsy blow. Farflit hadn't even made hard contact with the rat's back, a rarity for him. He was getting unsettled around their superior like always, and Laikan was fully aware of it. "It en't my job to raise him; that's for his negligent father 'o guardian."

Wringer completely disregarded the verbal jab at his competency as a godparent and Erskine's as a father, the weasel giving a languid shrug and neatly flipping the fishbone rib in his mouth to pick at the back of his teeth. "Ah, well. He'll come around. Janno's an adolescent; most of 'em are like that. He en't that familiar with the fox soldiers yet. He'll stop botherin' you once he gets 'is fill in a few seasons."

Insulting Wringer was like insulting a sheet of granite, Farflit thought. Except— unlike insulting a sheet of granite or Gittem— he completely understood and caught every last insult, no matter how subtle. Wringer was clever. He just didn't care.

Farflit tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling bristling along his spine at having his naturally sharp words go utterly disregarded and unreacted to. It felt like Wringer was ignoring half of him, as always.

"He'd better, 'o else he's goin' to get more than his fill if 'un of us trains him," Farflit said, dragging his claws over his knees. Next to them, an arguing fox and weasel duo passed by, hammers and pickaxes slung over their shoulders, and a round form began to head for Wringer from a distant part of the quarry. Lunch was almost over.

"Like 'ow?" Gittem said, staring at Farflit. Laikan kept from laughing out of sheer survival instinct, but the grey fox could see his shoulder blades trembling slightly from the effort. Farflit immediately felt acidic at being placed in the slot of secondary fool.

"The same way—"

"With plenty of punches an' spear blows, Gittem," Wringer said, cutting off Farflit's jab before it began. The weasel managed to slump even further with his back against the log, his spine curling in ways that Farflit was sure was impossible unless a sword had driven apart several of the conjoining ligaments.

The weasel's eyes traveled to the beast that was approaching them from the side, and he flipped over the fish rib in his mouth with a neat flick of his tongue. "That's 'ow most trainin' goes, unless the trainer's too spiky an' guarded ta hit. En't that right, old 'un?"

"Don't push your luck, Wringer," the beast said. A hedgehog with silvering spikes and a rough homespun skirt around her broad waist and hips sat down on a log opposite the vermin. "I don't have that much grey in my quills yet."

"Mellia," Farflit said, nodding his head in greeting. Laikan gave her a rough wave of his fingers, the rat busy digging through his pockets to make sure he really hadn't missed any cigarettes. Gittem mumbled a distorted hello through a mouthful of ale.

"Farflit," Mellia greeted back, taking up her rough friendliness. She smoothed out her skirt with her scarred and calloused fingers, her blocky paws resting at her sides.

There weren't many woodlanders working in the quarry besides a stray shrew or shunned exile of some sort, but they were still present. Mellia had been working with Erskine since the beginning, her older age be damned.

Whenever some shrews or the Guosim swallowed their pride enough or couldn't find any moles to help them build something solid, they came to Erskine, Farflit thought. For all their complaints about vermin, they just loved their fortresses and outposts. Woodlanders were born sniveling hypocrites. Half of the time, they were too busy muttering profanities about vermin and 'traitors who'd sell their parents for a drink of ale' to make too much trouble, though more than one of the new costumers openly gawked or stared at Mellia. The older ones just ignored her or gave her withering looks of hatred until the mass of her coworkers swallowed her up again.

The regular quarry workers weren't tolerating towards woodlanders by a long shot. Most of them hated the weak, arrogant residents of Mossflower with a burning loathing, and Mellia still fit in that category. But Erskine chose whom to hire— as long as a beast could work in the quarry and wanted fair pay, they could remain here and work, regardless of species or past deeds. And after seeing what the wharf rat could do with a sledgehammer and what Wringer could do with a spiked whip, all complainers kept their mouths shut about Mellia and paws to themselves.

"No greetin' for me, then?" Wringer drawled. "That's not a pleasant way ta start out lunch, Mellia."

"I don't need to be pleasant around you, young 'un," Mellia said dryly. "You can handle that part of the conversation just fine yourself. I'll just let you take the lead."

"Fair enough," Wringer said, flipping the fish rib over in his mouth again before clenching it between his sharp teeth. "You taught me all about pleasantries yourself, grandma."

"You apparently didn't learn them, grandson," Mellia said. Laikan gave a small shake of his head at their repartee, though it may have been thanks to him failing to find another cigarette again. Gittem mercifully stayed silent.

When the stoat had first witnessed Mellia's and Wringer's bizarre form of banter, Farflit thought, he'd asked Laikan and I how a hedgehog could have a son or daughter that could then have a weasel. _That_ had been an uncomfortable conversation.

"'ey usually say the skills of the student reflect back on the teacher," Wringer said, leaning his head back to lazily look up at Mellia's face, "but seein' what regard you 'old me in, I don't think that applies, do you? I en't quite risen above your standards yet, grandma, though you might have ta be buried in order for me ta do so."

"One day, Wringer," Mellia said, the hedgehog giving a small chuckle of dark amusement, "I'm going to find your silver tongue annoying instead of charming, and I'll smash your skull in while you sleep."

"Ah, true," Wringer said. "That's not goin' ta be fun." He picked the bone from his mouth and flicked it away. "But it'll be a sweet ride till then."

Mellia shook her head, rattling her greyed quills. "You're incorrigible…" she said, but it sounded more like a gruff fondness than a threat.

Just as Farflit was about to get up, sensing the call for lunchtime's end, a fox came running from the other side of the quarry. Farflit and Laikan perked up as he neatly cleared the part of the log near Mellia with a leap and advanced towards Wringer.

"Wringer, sir," he said, ignoring everyone else. Farflit narrowed his eyes at the purple stripe over the other grey fox's eye. A fruit dye stripe, he thought. It was one of the Damsontongue tribe.

"Yes?" Wringer said, not bothering to straighten up. The other vermin had to look straight down at him to meet his eyes. If Erskine and Wringer hadn't given Farflit a home seasons back, the tattered grey fox would've had far, far different opinions on how Wringer presented himself as a leader.

"We have found somethin' in the tunnels," the fox said. He briefly glanced towards Farflit before turning back to Wringer. "We need you there."

"Y'know, you don't have to work before lunch break is over," Wringer said, his motions still languorous, but the weasel was now sitting up. "There's no copper bonus involved."

A soft warning was buried in the weasel's voice— _there will be no extra pay, and anything you find, it comes to Erskine and I first._ The fox gave a nod of his aquiline face. "I know, sir. But my partner was diggin' for a new vein of stone when the side of it collapsed, an' we found a new tunnel."

"A new passage crack?" Laikan said, perking up. He was broad-shouldered, but the rat was incredibly flexible when he put his mind to it. His tattoos and limbs were covered in faint rock scratches from past expeditions.

"No," the fox said, turning his thin eyes to Laikan for a moment. "After the initial rough squeeze an' some hammerin', we found an entire tunnel, already excavated from elsewhere. There were supports an' torches along its length."

Wringer was standing up now, adjusting the coil of the simple whip that hung at his waist, and Gittem, Mellia, Laikan, and Farflit rose up to join him. "An' _old_ tunnel, then. Did your friend go down it?"

"Yes," the fox said, following Wringer's stride as the weasel took the lead, heading back towards where he had come from. "He investigated it with the others before lunch ta make sure it was safe, but he was the only one ta head down it during break. He appeared at the mouth of another disclosed tunnel earlier; we reopened it to free him. He is still pokin' around the main entrance."

Wringer's pace abruptly sped up, and Farflit felt his fur beginning to prickle uncomfortably. The fox clenched his thick jaw, suddenly grateful for the dagger at his side. Mellia overtook Gittem to speak to the other fox.

"Were the tunnels to the west?" Mellia said, her voice laced with concern. The fox ignored her. The direction all of them were heading in was speaking for itself. The sandstone along the craggy, high-reaching sides of the quarry was turning a dusty yellow and red shade.

Gittem frowned. "No 'un's been there for a long, long time. An' there were still good rocks Erskine liked."

Laikan gave him a withering look, but the rat was suddenly sticking closer to Mellia and her quills. "'Course they haven't been opened in a while; don't you remember what happened in the far west part five seasons back?" The rat hesitated as they drew even closer to their final destination, the tunnel entrance jutting out of the distant stone. "But it has been five seasons, an' this really en't in the area—"

"Remain cautious 'o remain dead," Farflit said flatly. His paw drifted down to rest lightly on his hidden dagger— at the same time the other's fox paw went down to rest on his. Both of the vulpine exchanged glances. They finally acknowledged each other.

"…Farflit," the other grey fox said, dipping his head. His slit-shaped eyes didn't once blink. He still had the adder fang brooch hanging around his neck, Farflit thought, even though Erskine didn't let them wear cloaks in the mines. Feh. He had a worthless sense of decorum. But it was appropriate, for a tribebeast.

"…Yang," Farflit said, nodding in return. They turned away from each other.

Yang Damsontongue had been one of the first the fox tribes and military groups had given up to the mines. He and Farflit had trained together on the journey from their settlements. Yang followed more tribal traditions; Farflit… not so much. They had parted in their group with all the friendliness of a splitting glacier before big quarrels could arise. They had preserved each other's pride and started no feud; there was nothing more they could ask for.

Both of the foxes flanked opposite sides of the group as they came to the sunken mineshaft entrance. Its wooden frame was sagging and aged, and the splintered remnants of boards nailed over the tunnel front were still there from where Yang had broken them free.

Wringer came to a stop in front of it to scan the near-vertical open tunnel and the disused construction frame around it. The weasel hooked his thumbs into his belt loops as he observed the shaft. It was as black as the maw of a pike. Mellia, Gittem, and Laikan kept their distance behind him— particularly Mellia and Laikan. The once-corsair muttered a superstitious oath and studied the cave like it was a jagged line of rocks on the coast.

There was a sound of crumbling rock and padding footsteps echoing up from below inside the deserted shaft.

"Yang?" a voice called.

Yang quickly stepped up to stand next to Wringer, leaning towards the passage. "Shaal! Are you alright down there?"

"Yes," Shaal said, and Farflit could hear a few pebbles dropping and something rustling softly as the other tribe fox moved around. "My lantern is still out, an' I've been walkin' blind, but I think there's somethin' down here. I saw somethin' shinin' recently."

Wringer's mouth got the slightest downward tilt to it, and he waved at Gittem. The giant stoat perked up.

"Buried within the walls, 'o coatin' them an' shiftin'? Gittem an' Laikan, go check the platform crank," Wringer ordered, and the big vermin shuffled over to a pulley and disused set-up of ropes with the rat following. Platforms were used to haul up miners and large chunks of rock, often up near-vertical shafts. Gittem was strong enough to handle one by himself.

"I don't know," Shaal said. Yang frowned.

Laikan poked at the ropes. "Looks sturdy enough," he said. There was a sound of creaking wood and ropes and a grunt. "Goddamn fishballs, Gittem, he didn't tell ye ta move it!" the rat barked.

"Don't—" Farflit and Mellia snapped, but Yang's pierced ears raised up and Wringer moved his paw to his whip handle. In the mine, Shaal froze.

The vermin and one hedgehog could hear nothing but the distant sounds of hammering resuming and the last bit of miners with lunch getting up and heading on to work. The faint column of various forges putting out smoke rose up the cloudless sky. A few birds flew over.

Down in the tunnel, Shaal shifted. Farflit could tell he'd been stiffened in alert earlier.

"Wringer? Yang?" he finally said.

"What?" Wringer said.

"Find a lantern," Shaal responded. There was an odd tone to his voice. "I think I'm going to need some light."

* * *

_A.N:_ _The author of this story has no patience 'o trainin' whatsoever, an' her updatin' schedule mirrors her thought pattern. This is Farflit. You're an idiot if you think otherwise. From now on, there's goin' ta be a spastic updatin' schedule. Saraa has the compulsive control of a pup an' can't work on her original stuff otherwise. Review if you have somethin' important ta say. If not, stay quiet. Nothin' of value will be lost._

_Yes, you do recognize me from The Muteness of Martin aka Push. If you don't, it's not my concern. Skip the author's note below if you don't want a ton of whinin'._

(A.N: Farflit is right, unfortunately… seeing my path for the next two weeks, I've decided to throw out the update schedule. I'm going on a college tour, so I'll be traveling and on my feet every day for the next week. I have no patience and I'll have little to no time. I'm using to writing fast and updating relatively the same; it and drawing are literally like an indulgent compulsion to me. I'm sorry.

At this point, I'm trying to find what to do with myself and my writing, and I just want to create and toss things out there while I figure out what the hell I need. Fanfiction feels more like a crutch to me than anything else at this point, but I can't stop writing it… I appreciate all reviews, because all of you remind me I'm actually writing this tripe for some reason. I feel a little nonexistent at times in the archives, or like I'm isolating people everyone else doesn't.

Yeah, my rambling's done. -SL)


	4. Chapter 3

_10 Seasons Later_

_Post-Prologue_

_*Warning: the followin' chapter has some excess foul language 'ere an' there, even for Redwall. Every chapter involving this POV will. Might as well buckle up an' prepare for it._

* * *

"—an' then he mucked up the other line, an' I swear, you'd have thought the bilgedrinkin' beast was workin' in the dark from the way the markin' came out. I just about throttled 'im for that."

_Clang. _The two daggers locked together, shivering as the combatants tried to force each other's blades back.

"He didn't completely mess up your family symbols 'o somethin', now did he?" There was a gravelly sigh from the ferret female sitting on the sidelines of the fight. She flipped her dagger over to polish the other side as the sidestepping and fierce clanging of metal continued not a spear's length away. "Rangar, you bloody fool, I told you ta find a good artist afore you got your battle stripes put on; serves you right."

"He _is _a good artist; he didn't screw it up last time," Ranger said, the stoat throwing up his paws from where he sat on a rock. The red ink lines stretching from his wrist to his shoulders twisted like waterweed being blown through a current. "Every'un here has at least somethin' off of 'im. Includin' you, Slipgale, you reekin' hypocrite."

The tall weasel and fox sparring in the middle of the clearing shifted their pace, and the weasel was forced to sidestep to avoid a dagger to his ribs. He jerked his outstretched arm up, trying to drive his dagger pommel into the underside of the fox's wrist to disarm him, and the fox dove forward, ducking beneath his attacker's move and going into a roll. He tumbled past the weasel's side in a blur of red fur and entangled yellow tattoos, and dust and pebbles flew as the mustelid whirled around just in time to block a stab at his spine from the swift other Juska. Another crack of metal meeting metal joined the melee of stabs and blocks between the two beasts.

"I got tattoos from him ten seasons back, Rangar," Slipgale said, rolling her green-dye framed eyes, "back when he had a decent set of eyes in his skull. Vulpez, Crimin is about from the same time as Atiya an' your father; he was tattooin' the latter afore you were even a squirmin' thought in your mother's 'ead—"

"Oi now, you leave my parents outta this," Rangar said, crossing his arms, "both of 'em. My old dad's gettin' on up there, but he en't on the same level as Atiya. That vixen's vergin' on bein' older than the name 'Rath' an' the birth of the tribes." Rangar gave a slight frown as the fox in the clearing leaped and drove a kick straight into the weasel's side, the airborne vulpine's kilt and tail swaying behind him, and the weasel snarled and elbowed him in the face with one vicious snap of his lithe body. The fox was thrown from the air and slammed into the ground, tumbling over like a broken remnants released from a noose, but on his second roll, he caught himself on his paws and back-flipped. The fox landed on his feet with a thud, immediately rising up again and darting forward to stab at the weasel's stomach.

"Anscom, if all you're goin' ta do is show off like some wanderin' troupe jester, then get outta the ring!" Rangar called, cupping his paws to his mouth. There were more grunts and slicing arcs of knife blades between the two vermin as they brought their fight into closer ranger. "Same goes ta you, Dipper! What, are you takin' a nap? You en't cubs anymore; fight like you know somethin' 'o get out."

"As much as I like you, Rangar," Anscom said, dodging a swift punch at his right temple and clenching his teeth as one of Dipper's kicks narrowly grazed his left side, "this isn't exactly a present for you 'o anythin'."

"We en't holdin' a knife ta your throat an' makin' you watch Anscom 'ere eat dirt," Dipper said, quickly snapping his dagger up to his throat for a shield and bracing it with both paws as the fox attempted to slice him open for his comment, "but step inta the circle, an' we'll see where you end up."

He shoved away Anscom's blade with a grunt and push of strength. The fox narrowly blocked a slice at his shoulder, cursing under his breath as Dipper crisscrossed and tried to lay open his other one, driving the fox back. Their daggers clashed in a tight-knight weave of flashing edges.

Rangar chuckled, his lower jaw jutting out as he did so in a near dead solid imitation of his father without a few season decades. Give him a few more tattoos and rites of passages, Dipper thought, and maybe shove him over to a better an' younger artist than half-deaf and blind Crimin; you had better scumsucking trust the beast who had a miniature blade up around your face— and the transformation would be complete…

"Nah, I'll wait a while before crackin' some 'eads," Rangar said. He crossed his legs underneath his decorated kilt. "I'll just let you an' Anscom finish your little jaunt first."

…and Rangar would probably have a goddamn fit the first time he saw his and his father's reflections side by side and figured it out, hit the bottle harder than a tribe raid, have some Hellgates-forsaken combination of a celebration and pity-party, and then strut around like he was hot tripe once the hangover wore off.

Dipper was more than familiar with the chieftain's son after seasons of the gangly halfer inviting himself into the warriors' group. He'd been a decorated tag-along who didn't understand the meaning of the bilgesnorting word, continuously hauling himself over its summit with every training session and casual attempt to clamber into Dipper's, Slipgale's, and Anscom's respects. And Dipper would be a strung-up woodlander if the growing bugger hadn't managed to squirm his way into their lives.

After hitting the threshold of growing into a real male and having his first battle scars and tattoos carved into him in red, Rangar had become one of them.

Dipper dropped into a crouch, blocking one of Anscom's round kicks at head level with the back of his forearm. He felt the thud of bone against his limb, sending a dull shock of pain down his scarred muscle, and Dipper lashed out with his other free arm, trying to grab the fox by his leg and smash him into the ground. Anscom had always favored his left side after an otter had crushed his shoulder; if he could hamper him just a little—

"If blades start gettin' thrown around while you two are havin' your little dance, an' any of 'em end up over here, I swear I'll return them betwixt your eyes right quick," Slipgale warned, narrowing her eyes at Anscom as he dodged Dipper's grab and flitted away to the opposite side of the clearing. The red fox casually lowered his paw an increment and readjusted his fingers, spinning his dagger so he no longer had it ready to throw at any split second— and Dipper followed suit.

Slipgale had no mucking tolerance for casual spars, Dipper thought, narrowing his eyes and staring Anscom down. Wench. He and the fox slowly began to circle each other, sticking to the edges of the clearing and moving with the slinking, purposeful gaits of hunters. Neither vermin blinked. Dipper felt Anscom's amber eyes harden into the same focus in as real battle. Just for a moment.

With everything else, it was enough.

The weasel's fur began to rise as his skin warmed, his tattoos won in battle burning on his skin with the wonderful heat, and Dipper felt the teeth of adrenaline nipping at his veins. His blood spiked, stirring, and Dipper could already feel his inhibition loosening at the promise of _moving _and—

He automatically clenched his fingers tighter around the worn dagger hilt. The feeling sank away to the level it belonged to.

On the sidelines, Slipgale would've looked exasperated at the unwarranted little game of hunter-and-hunted. She was a black-streaked ferret with a lopsided mask over her eyes and interlocking green tribal chain tattoos that arched down the curves of her body. Only the occasional scar and the expanse of her stitched skirt hid away some of the more intimately looping chains and broke the ink. Her patience for others showing off facades when there was no point was as predictable as the next link in her markings.

But since there was no crowd for the two Juska to pander to on the sluggish camp outskirts— and those around were just moving about their own business and chores— the ferret was just apathetic verging on bored as Dipper and Anscom paused in their circling, locking eyes for a few extra moments.

"An' there we go," Rangar said, looking between Slipgale polishing her blade and Dipper and Anscom as the two Juska abruptly turned on their heels and threw themselves at each other, snarling the whole way.

Slipgale made a small noise of derision or amusement under her breath. Dipper didn't catch which as he dodged away from a stab at his hip and right-hooked Anscom in the face, feeling the fox's thin muzzle roll underneath his knuckles as the crafty-eyed Juska went staggering, sharp ears askew and dagger bouncing across the ground— and too late, the weasel realized that Anscom had possessed firm footing after all, and he only took hits when he could pay back.

The blow and reach towards Anscom had stretched the taller weasel's long body out. The falling fox hit the ground on his back, braced himself with his arms, and drove his feet straight up into the base of Dipper's ribcage right underneath a fresh, jagged red scar.

Pain shot up Dipper's chest like a bolt of lightning when he felt the brutal kick drive home. He wheezed out a swear, the whole bundle of clipped muscles running down the center of his torso screaming, as if a shrew had driven a dirk hilt-deep into him for the second time… and Anscom had witnessed it a second time. Everything blurred under a sheet of a pained tears suddenly pouring into his eyes.

For a few split seconds, looking down at Anscom's face, Dipper couldn't tell if the fox was growling— or _smirking. _The yellow marks above his mouth seemed to tilt up in a smile, part of his teeth bared just enough to complete it. The ground jerked out from beneath Dipper's feet, and Vulpez had a damn good laugh as his balance shattered.

You jrakat, Dipper thought, feeling the jagged pain move up his chest as the world slowed and he fell, _you son of a whore._ Anscom drew back one of his legs to kick him again, lifting his arms to shove up the falling Dipper's shoulders and keep from being crushed. The yellow markings across his chest twisted.

Adrenaline and reflexes screamed, Dipper slammed his fist into the fox's diaphragm and choked as he came crashing on top of the other vermin's legs, and both of them went over in a snarling, choking mess with their blades skittering to the sides. Rangar stood up as the two rolled over with locked arms and Dipper hauled back and head-butted the fox. The weasel felt the thud of his skull meeting another before blunt claws sank into his shoulders and twisted, forcing him to snarl and release Anscom's arms. The fox leapt away, lunging for his dagger, and Dipper threw himself after him with the pain still fading from his belly and anger still rising.

"Let 'em finish their round, Rangar," Slipgale said, standing behind the younger stoat and laying a paw on his shoulder to keep him back from joining the spar. The chieftan's son hung back, his paw lingering on the dagger hanging at his waist. Slipgale had put her dagger up. "Methinks you kin have a turn later."

"If they en't worn each other out by then," Rangar said, cracking his neck and loosening his shoulders up as Anscom narrowly avoided having his tail stomped on. Dust and pebbles flew. "They're stinkin' spar-hoggers. We're goin' ta have ta kick 'em off the field."

Dipper palmed away the fox's wrist as Anscom attempted to stab him with a flourish of his blade. The weasel was unarmed, but he and Anscom continued their tide of advancing and withdrawing across the clearing, Dipper blocking Anscom's swipes with his arm and dodging away from the precise slashes of the dagger, and Anscom cutting through his defense and lunging forward whenever he could get ground to force the weasel back.

The hazy heat of anger and adrenaline was boiling up in his veins like a snakespitting fate-forsaken well was getting flooded, and Dipper's fingers desperately curled around air as he searched for an absent dagger. He needed it; he mucking needed that hilt clenched in his paw right now or just something solid—

"Well, you've changed your tune from earlier," Slipgale said, slowly twisting the strings of her bolas around her claws as she watched the fight. "But we could manage that." Dipper could hear her voice becoming distant, like she and Rangar were floating away from their places, and he barely registered Rangar saying something back and the stoat still keeping a paw lingering around his weapon.

Goddamnit, it was beginning, Dipper thought. But this was only a spar, and he could stop it before it got too far. It wasn't a battle or anything that required any real cursed killing. There was no blood to drive him over the edge, no splintering bones under his paws… Dipper focused on keeping his breathing level as Anscom took a quick jab at his chest, and the weasel clenched his claws into his palm as he drew back his fist and tried to drive it into Anscom's nose or crooked shoulder. He missed, and bobbed and weaved away as Anscom almost smashed a dagger pommel right into his face. It smacked against one of the weasel's ears, sending a wave of pain down it.

In his peripheral vision, Dipper saw Rangar leaning forward slightly, another Juska approaching the sparring field, and his dagger lying on the ground not four strides away. Some of his spiking pulse calmed immediately when he saw it. Dipper leaned backwards, letting his shoulders and torso go limp, with his flexibility barely saving him from taking a shallow slash across his chest by a needle's breadth.

For one split second, he could see Anscom's dagger practically resting in his fur beneath the hollow of his throat, the shining blade pressed against Dipper's twisting blue and red tattoos with the fox's yellow ink-stripes along his fingers there right amongst them, and everything was a tangled mess of yellow, red, blue, and silver.

Dipper took a swift step back and missed Anscom's second slash at his chest by less than a second.

The weasel dropped to the ground as he felt Anscom's third stab go right over his head, shoved off from his crouch like a living spring of coiled muscle, and dove for his dagger. Dirt and rock scraped against his elbows and pelted his belly, Dipper felt the trickle of blood running down the middle of his forehead as Anscom cursed and took after him, and then his scuffed fingers were locked around a worn dagger hilt— and the fox couldn't do a sludgeload about it.

Dipper rolled over and snapped his dagger upward just in time to catch Anscom's stab at his throat. Their blades locked together in a quivering snap, Anscom's curved dagger tickling at Dipper's neck fur and poised to add more red to a tattoo already there, and Dipper gritted his teeth and braced his shoulders against the ground as the fox stepped up. Anscom was almost straddling him as the vulpine tried to force his blade down further with both paws, part of his fangs gritted and bared in a soundless snarl as both of the Juska grappled. Dipper could see the yellow lines along Anscom's shoulders shivering with effort. Neither dagger moved an inch.

"Alright, time's up," a gruff voice said from the sidelines. A spear was impatiently tapped against one of the logs. "As much as I'd love ta let you both fight it out, you lot are needed elsewhere. We'll call it a tie. Get ta your feet."

Anscom turned his head and gave a disapproving look to the green-tattooed male ferret now standing next to Rangar and Slipgale. The fox shoved down more of his weight onto his dagger, making Dipper give a growl as he pushed back to keep them even.

"Kinda busy here, Sarck," Dipper grunted, eyeing Anscom's dagger as it crept closer to his jugular vein. _Damnit._

"Yeah, I noticed," Sarck said, crossing his arms and allowing Slipgale to loop one of hers through his before he settled them, "but you need ta be busy elsewhere. Chief Zenrisk's callin' for you all. You kin play later."

"What does dad want?" Rangar said, ignoring the venomous stare Anscom and Dipper had taken up between each other as they tussled to keep driving their daggers further— and also ignoring the fond look Slipgale and Sarck shared. Sarck briefly stroked her fingers and gave Slipgale part of a front-fang-missing smile before turning back to Rangar, who had one Hellgates of a poker face.

"He en't just callin' you, Rangar. He needs ta see the whole warriors band gathered at Atiya's an' Taike's lodge," Sarck said. Slipgale raised her eyebrows, looking up at her taller mate.

"Why? Is Tabliz Rath bringin' more strife again?" she said. "We'll put him an' his whole bare-faced crew down if they're tryin' ta come east."

On the training field floor, Dipper's shoulders were getting chafed by the sharp pricks of rocks grating against them, and he was getting tripelicking tired of Anscom trying to push his arms down. The fox's ears were perked up now that Sarck was speaking, but he wasn't relenting, and Dipper was half-tempted to risk turning over and smashing Anscom's defined shoulder blades and bright streak tattoos into the dirt. If it wouldn't completely dislocate his crippled shoulder and piss off Anscom for a week, Dipper thought, it'd be worth it. Just to make him eat dirt _and get the knife blade out of his goddamn face._

"No," Sarck said, momentarily sobering. His fingers curled into loose fists. He looked between Rangar and Slipgale. "Taike's seen a vision of the Taggerung. The prophecy's beginnin'."

Rangar's eyes widened before he composed himself and leaned towards Sarck, and Slipgale gave Sarck a sharp look, digging her claws into the other ferret's wrist. Her fur bristled, and Dipper and Anscom actually gave pause in the middle of their brawling.

"Sarck, you best not be messin' with us," Slipgale growled. "The Taggerung? Ten seasons after—"

"Sarck kin't be; he wouldn't," Rangar said, cutting her off. There was an odd, excited shine to his eyes. "I heard the first prophecy myself afore. It wasn't ready ta been seen then, so it blinded Atiya. But now, Taike knows what he's doin'. If he says the Taggerung is finally wanderin' out there… then they are."

"By the jaws of Vulpez," Slipgale muttered.

Below Anscom, Dipper felt himself freezing with shock. For a moment, the daggers let up, and the weasel could feel Anscom stiffening and growing brittle at the news. _The Taggerung._ They had found a hint of the Taggerung's trail, Dipper thought, both he and Anscom losing track of their situations.

After hundreds of blasted seasons of fighting to remain on the edge of the Juskan tribes' consciousness, scavenging for both attention and food, and forever having the shame of producing and losing an otter Taggerung— though he had been slain by the mighty Ruggan Bol soon afterwards— the eastern Raths actually had a chance at obtaining something to return them to power.

With the birth of a babe, swaddling cloth and rough blessings soon followed. With the birth of a Taggerung, a river of blood and death was their cradle, and a blade their toy.

It was a backhanded blessing from Vulpez and the Fates themselves.

Dipper could only hope that the Taggerung's dowry wouldn't be the lives of the tribe, or far too many of those around them.

"Hey, Anscom," Dipper said, dropping his string of curses for the moment. Anscom looked down at him, returning his attention to Dipper and their two locked daggers.

"What?"

_Thud._

Dipper arched his long body, knocked Anscom's legs out from under him, and drove his foot into the fox's stomach.

"Payback's a whore, en't it?" Dipper said.

Anscom gave a discordant wheeze.

"Alright, no more rivalries over there," Slipgale said, laying her free paw on her waist and bolas handle as Dipper shoved Anscom off him, and the fox got to his feet, clutching his stomach before he straightened. Dipper was more pleased than he should have been to see the dirty look on Anscom's face that could've melted a bleedin' lump of metal better than any forge.

After the move with the wound kick, Dipper thought, sheathing his dagger and feeling the knot of scar tissue stinging with each of his steps towards the gathered group, Anscom had damn deserved that.

"So Taike is waitin' for us now?" Rangar said, already beginning to stroll off towards the Seer lodge. The other beasts instinctively gravitated behind him and followed his trail before they split apart. Dipper joined Slipgale and Sarck on his left, while Anscom drifted towards the right.

"That's the gist of it," Sarck said, giving a brief wave towards a rat with two stripes beneath his eyes. The other Juska waved back before continuing on into their hut. "Chief Zenrisk an' everybeast else are gathered there, in case he happens ta see anythin' else, but you know how Taike works."

"He gives you nothin' an' everythin' at once," Anscom said, nodding his head in something that looked near approval. Dipper wasn't surprised. Taike was a brilliant loony mess who was a few skinning knives short of a kit, but Anscom enjoyed seeing chains get yanked, whoever was doing it.

Dipper couldn't see the red fox's back from here as they headed through the Juska camp, and neither did he want to, but he knew what was engraved into the other warrior's pelt. Anscom's whole back was inked with short yellow rays along his shoulders and two long lines that descended down his back and wrapped around to the base of his tail, as well as four dots following the stripes along the way. The whole thing was one giant symmetrical tribute to flashiness and sharp lines.

Except for that one goddamn dot.

Everything was perfectly in order, each dot that clung near one of the stripes painstakingly spaced and inked, and yet there was one dot far, far off course from the others, crookedly placed near the edge of Anscom's spine instead of sitting where it should've been put. It was just mucking _there. _It crashed what would've been a gorgeous set of family markings and battle rewards, and why? Hellgates no, not on accident, Dipper thought, but just because Anscom had purposely asked for that scumsucking dot to be placed off kilter to muck with everybeast's heads. And he let everyone _know_ that he had.

All admiration aside, Rangar had almost throttled him on the sparring field when Anscom had lazily told him about the not-so-accidental mauling of his tribe tattoos after withholding the answer for two whole seasons. That had been an interesting match.

"The Seer's probably seen everythin' already," Dipper said. "Taike jerks around with everybeast more than a cub with a beetle on a string; all that's left now is ta hear 'im out an' find the Taggerung."

"Easier said than done, Dipper," Sarck said, picking up his pace to match Rangar, "but I think we'll be able ta get 'em, this time. As long as you all know where you're runnin'…"

Sarck scowled for a few seconds, making the slashed scar across his lip distort before his expression faded, and he twined his fingers with Slipgale's tighter. Everybeast knew seers would never give a straight answer, by either Fate's designs or their own.

But Sarck had tempted Fate enough with his own existence; he didn't dare to insult the unseen web of futures entrapping them. The ferret was damn lucky to be alive. Sarck figured that not sassing Fate would keep him that way just a while longer, Dipper thought, and hopefully wouldn't jog Vulpez's memory about the ferret he'd forgotten to retrieve. He clung tightly to what he had.

…it still didn't prevent Dipper from wanting to tell Sarck and Slipgale to get a goddamn room, seeing they were apparently incapable of moving around without at least one paw on each other half the time.

But it was easier to leave that comment to Rangar and avoid getting any bolas whiplash across the face, Dipper thought, standing taller as they approached the dark form of the seer's lodge. The stoat would say it anyway to try and save himself from nightmares. Nobeast liked thinking about those they practically considered both friends and guardians gettin' busy beneath the sheets. Especially not Rangar.

True to form, Rangar was pretending that the linked paws between Sarck and Slipgale were nonexistent— like always— but any last comments about other business he or the Juska in the group were about to make disappeared as the five found themselves standing outside the lodge. Soft whispers drifted from between the dark curtains that hung over the entrance, and Dipper had to keep from instinctively reaching for his dagger. A faint plume of smoke curled up from the top of the building. Within the hour, they would learn the place of the Taggerung… and no one knew whether or not they would be the first to do so.

Nobeast said a thing.

Sarck released Slipgale's paw and stepped up to the entrance, drawing back the curtains. The murmuring dark of the lodge awaited them, along with several figures gathered in the incense and rune-choked murk.

"After you," Sarck said, gesturing them all forth.

Rangar stepped in first, vanishing into the seer's lair. Anscom followed, then Slipgale, and finally Dipper. He felt the curtains scratching against his fur in coarse, spiny brushes that made his skin crawl with discomfort. Behind him, all outward light but the few rays spilling between the cracks of the lodge disappeared as Sarck stepped in and let the curtains fall closed.

Three sitting forms and a smile filled with sharp teeth greeted them in the gloom.

Taike Fatewinder the fox seer spread his arms wide, bone ornamented kilt spread over his lap and serrated grin still plastered across his face.

"Looks like every'un's here. This will be fun!"

* * *

_A.N: I en't ever been fond of seers… there's far too much twistin' they kin do ta your 'ead without you knowin' it. But there's nothin' you kin really change about that. I've been I told I get a little goddamn mouthy, though I have no idea why the Hellgates every'un thinks so. You got a problem with swearin'? What in all muckin' Mossflower are you doin' around a Juska camp? We've got twelve different words for 'whore,' an' Rangar swears he an' 'is mother know a thirteenth. He's probably lyin', but you never know. You en't 'eard the mouth our Lady Chieftain has on 'er; puts Zenrisk Rath ta shame._

_Thanks ta all the beasts who have stuck around an' read 'o reviewed so far. Saraa's been gettin' a taste of Juskan wanderin' around, though with less daggers an' stabbin' involved. She's bloody inefficient at it, though…_

_Shoutout ta Jade TeaLeaf, whoever an' wherever the Hellgates you are. I've 'eard somethin' muttered about an unmarked Taggerung over in your part of the land, an' all I kin say is ta grab that jrakat while you kin. Another tribe'll snatch 'em up quickly if you don't, an' then you're goin' ta get slaughtered._

_Anyway, review an' everythin' below, though if you're bettin' somethin' on Anscom an' I when we have a rematch, you might not want ta place it on the fox... _*cracks knuckles*

_Just a word of advice._

(A.N.: Apologies for some of Dipper's apparent unnecessary language, but I set up some brief canon in Muteness of Martin that I can't break now… so unfortunately, he's still going to sound like this. Some of you guys know what part I'm talking about; a drugged Dipper is a mouthy Dipper. I'm so sorry about not reviewing and replying on time, but college tour took up a lot of time, and to cut to the chase, I'll say I was unable to log on and reply or review. But I've returned now, so we'll see how that goes! –SL)


	5. Chapter 4

"—_and that's the sixth beast we've lost to the mountains and frostbite. Vulpez, why is everything ending this way? There has to be something that we can do; something to keep everyone all together—"_

"_Kevern, calm down. Moklafrist isn't goin' to give up his position. You know how he is. If some'un falls behind, they're… gone. There's nothin' we can do but hold on. Hold on, an' keep goin'."_

"_What, so another woodlander settlement can oh-so-righteously reject us when we reach them, and we lose more families? They cannot keep up with the pace that Moklafrist is setting, and the more we lose, the more we die as a whole. We can't continue going like this."_

"_Then how do we keep goin'?"_

"_In the same direction— but with a different pace. With different leaders. And with beasts who understand what's happening to us and know what we need."_

"…_oh Hellgates. Kevern, don't… don't force me to do this. I can't choose between you an' my father an' Moklafrist— they're our only current chance for gettin' us out of here alive. You have to understand."_

"_I am not forcing you to choose anything, Reina. But I'm asking you to help me change our path. We're not going to walk out of these mountains alive with Moklafrist and your father in charge, and if we do, we'll have none of the others we were supposed to protect. That's worth less than surviving alone. You have the blood of a second-in-command in your veins. You can be a leader, and you know it; you're just dampening down your own capability. We could turn everything around. And you are very well aware of it."_

_There was a brief silence in the northern wind._

"…_please, Reina. I cannot do this without you. I don't want to force you against your father, but… I need you. I can't stand aside and let us all die."_

"_Don't sound that way yet. I didn't say no. We have everythin' to lose… but we're already losin' it. We might as well make a gamble while we've got somethin'."_

"_You'll stand by me when I challenge Moklafrist?"_

"_Kevern Redtalon, I'd stand by you if we were walkin' into Hellgates."_

* * *

As Reina stepped into the warlord's chambers, she closed the door behind her. The rat heard the soft click of the lock directly after the quiet tap of her staff against the stone floor. She received no immediate greeting from the red-cloaked ferret that was standing in front of the frosted window, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at out the falling snow. She hadn't expected one.

Reina hobbled over to the fireside, being cautious and not allowing old habits— such as loosening the cloak around her neck or sinking into the rough chair nearby— to take over. Common sense came over nostalgia, she thought, as did tact before hope. But she didn't have to worry too much about the latter rearing its head.

The rat automatically shifted over to the well-worn part of floor by the side of the fortified hearth, and she waited for Lord Kevern to speak. He had that slight twist to the edge of his mouth that meant he was considering something, Reina thought— though it was without the tiny furrow between his eyes that meant anger— and the gold brooch and tassel that held his cloak tied shut at the throat weren't clipped as neatly as usual. A sliver of red material peeped up from behind the pin.

Reina had no doubt Kevern would've grimaced at it had he known it was showing. He had pride in his instinctive preening to keep him dressed as a leader. One couldn't be above the masses they protected if they didn't distinguish themselves from them in every way.

Kevern had always been precise about appearances, Reina thought. His entire room was decorated in the finest pieces of furniture the abbey had offered, creating a careful map of imposing dressers and a canopy-cloaked bed carved from thick, dark wood. Reina knew only half of it was used. It was all perfectly lined up to create the most convenient paths around the room while still remaining intimidating. No floor space was wasted.

Kevern had taken the tassel holding his cloak shut from the disheveled habit of Icebloom's once-abbot before the weeping mouse was dethroned and ushered out into the cold, and the reign of Greyspire had begun. While the previous residents froze, it had been the first time Reina had ever felt truly _warm._

…for the most part.

Lord Kevern still hadn't spoken. Reina softly cleared her throat. There was none of that aura of anger or danger building in the air around him that signaled an encroaching storm. Nor was his fur bristling. Whatever he was in the midst of considering, it wasn't particularly urgent, Reina thought. At least, not in a manner that would require her to verbally tread on eggshells.

Several beasts had faced Lord Kevern's anger before. Not many had weathered it. Reina considered herself a default survivor.

"Milord?" she said, breaking the silence. The ferret finally turned away from the window, uncrossing his arms. If his slight touch of insomnia had been returning lately, Reina was unable to tell. There was no sign of tiredness anywhere in his face. Then again, he had always been good at hiding weakness…

"Reina," he said. "You are here. Good. I need to speak to you. There is a decision in which I need your consideration."

Consideration, or aid in carrying out, regardless of what she wished? Reina found she could no longer tell when Kevern meant one or the other. The rat leaned further on her staff, moving her paw up to gently loosen the cloak clasp around her neck. Kevern would be annoyed later if he found his own clasp was uneven. If she could at least hint to him that it was, she could save him from some agitation.

Kevern merely watched her actions with a flick of his eyes. Reina could see his shoulders squaring impatiently at her lack of immediate response, and he looked restless, some of his fur along his neck combed in slightly more disheveled waves than the rest of him. He didn't acknowledge nor catch her hint.

There was already a different tension in him, Reina thought. Something had changed from the last time she'd spoken to Kevern about amendments in their home. She could already feel her wariness growing, and she swiftly placed in front of the far-too-permanent bubble of trust she had within her. It was always best to recall who she was currently speaking to. She and chasing ghosts had killed her father; Reina had no doubt that doing the same to herself would be the end of her one day.

"What would it be, milord?" Reina prompted, trying to smoothly draw the words out of him. Keve— Lord Kevern occasionally needed somebeast's assent in order to say what he wanted easier. Reina didn't think he knew that about himself. Perhaps it was why he always called her in for discussion about a decision concerning Greyspire… though he did remember the other reasons for confiding in her.

Lord Kevern pushed his fingers against each other and held them in front of his chest, lowering his head a fraction to study his second-in-command. The instant Reina felt his brown eyes sweeping across her face to gauge her expression, her innards gave a small and startled twist. The rat kept a straight face and pushed the feeling down. She had been doing this far too long for her heartbeat go off kilter. Not all changes in decision were bad, Reina reminded herself, especially from a cautious warlord. Wait to hear him out.

…_like you did before,_ a small voice whispered in her head. Reina swiftly smothered it and the creeping claws of the feeling that came with it.

"Have you ever heard of Redwall?"

Reina blinked in surprise at Kevern's question. It had come completely out of nowhere, and the female rat floundered for a moment before she found her answer. Kevern stoically watched her the whole time.

"Yes, milord," Reina said, she aware that the ferret had already known her answer. They had mentioned the name of Redwall more than once, though it had only been truly discussed about between them twice: once when Kevern was no recognized leader and Reina was no adviser, and both of them had been young fools serving beneath Moklafrist and huddling close for survival one freezing evening; and once when _Warlord_ Kevern had been letting Reina tend to his lacerated wounds in his new tent… and proudly wearing his brand new red cloak. "But what does Redwall have to do with Greyspire?"

Both times it was conversed about, the name of 'Redwall' had been tainted with the most bitter and hateful kind of hope. Reina was still mystified as to why he would mention the far southern abbey… unless another one of his large beliefs had changed, like it had during the building of the rocky dungeon. The rat would be willing to pray to Vulpez if that was the case in the way she was dreading it was.

"Plenty," Lord Kevern said. The ferret's paws fell behind him, he clasping them behind his back, and Reina could sense a round of pacing coming on. He was already impatiently shifting in place. "Greyspire and Redwall are both communal abbeys that don't exactly fit the mold. They require work from their residents in order to feed them, they have faced severe threats more than once, a large majority of the beasts within the settlements wear habits and attend classes, and they follow decent order."

Kevern paused, allowing part of his lecture to settle in. Reina remained standing by the fireplace. So he was going to give a speech before he worked his way up to a point, she thought. This had to be something important he was trying to convince her of. The rat's fingers were already tightening painfully around her staff. She kept her grip hidden, making sure the warlord couldn't see it.

"And yet," Lord Kevern said, gesturing once with a paw and swishing his red cloak with the sudden movement, "we are vastly different. One is flourishing more than the other and seems poised to remain that way for seasons to come. It is not us, Adviser Reina. No one speaks of Greyspire or Icebloom in the south… and yet up north, we hear news of Redwall. What sets us apart?"

The news was usually torn from the lips of a captured woodland traveler, Reina thought, whether it was while they were being offered food and shelter or Greyspire's kitchens— or screaming their blasted lungs out in the dungeon shortly afterwards. But oh, her lord was so _hospitable._ Reina bit down the bitterness rising in her throat.

"Well, milord," the rat said, her voice giving a gentle echo in the stone room, "for one, the greatest threat Greyspire has ever faced was you— an' it fell. An' secondly, Redwall isn't up in the freezin' north, an' they don't have a tendency for throwin' loose-lipped visitors into prison that they never come out of. They like to be heard about."

Kevern's launch into pacing was delayed as he turned his head to look at Reina. The hard tone to her voice had made her echoes far less pleasant. The rat refused to move as he looked her over, and she could just sense the judgment and thoughts running through him. One of them was probably, _'not again.'_

And Hellgates help her, that was the exact same thing in her head too, Reina thought. They had done this to each other too many times.

"You do make a point, Reina," Lord Kevern said, slowly twining his fingers behind his back and beneath his cloak again. Reina hated not being able to see whether he was just clasping his paws or clenching them. A half smile of amusement appeared on Kevern's face, showing part of his pearly fangs. "But not the one I was seeking. Redwall can afford to be kinder. Their very land is not consistently turning against them every winter. And those they take in don't rub their privileges into the abbey's faces, since everyone there possesses them."

Reina could hear the stiff patience in his voice embedded far down in it that had made both of their hackles rise more than once in past arguments— or at least had made hers do so. The same opportunity for a one-sided fight hung in the air as it had last time. Reina refused to grab it.

"Then why are you mentioning Redwall?" Reina said. "We've said all there is to be said about that abbey." She kept her neutral stance as her words sparked something in Kevern's eyes again, and he began to slowly pace. The red firelight flickered over the rat near it, making the vermin's fur glow, and dimly highlighted the turning cloak and walking figure of the ferret who was on the edges of the light.

"Not entirely," Lord Kevern said. Reina felt an old shiver move through her scruff at the tone in his voice. He continued to move along the outskirts of the firelight. His whole room looked like a deserted king's quarters, filled with murky and ominously lurking forms of furniture. "We have the same basics as Redwall, and we are more prepared to survive. But there is one key difference between us, other than the ones you have mentioned—"

Kevern momentarily stared at Reina.

"—and that is that we have no elders to pass down knowledge, or a constant chain of leaders ready to take our places once we've died."

So that's what it was. Greyspire was a tiny kingdom without an heir, Reina thought. Mainly because they _were_ the heirs; she and Kevern had risen up and ripped their own inheritance out of their elders' paws long before any damned promises were made or unwritten wills were created. It made sense that the violent successors and prodigal cubs would know nothin' about the future they'd stolen and made when they had killed their predecessors.

"Do you intend to start trainin' some heirs 'o begin searchin' for viable candidates, milord?" Reina said.

Lord Kevern paused in one of his steps, and Reina caught sight of some terrifying, silent determination and idea in his face.

"Not yet," he said. "I plan to find something far more solid for seasons to come, and something that will even us out with Redwall. In truth, there is _nothing _making those woodlanders and abbey more competent than us, other than one thing— they have a guardian spirit."

It took Reina a full five seconds to understand the implications of what Lord Kevern had just said.

"Oh, do they do, but it was by luck. An' what are goin' to do, milord? Makeone?" Reina said, her mouth opening and before her head caught up. Lord Kevern had always been fiercely intent on getting everybeast to believe they were equal to the woodlanders and each other—

_Except those that aren't, _the voice in the back of Reina's head whispered again.

—but how could he do this? He had conquered an abbey with limited fighters and made it flourish, yes, but they were not Redwall; why the Hellgates should they be? The world had already done enough twisting over the seasons lately, and Reina was suddenly struggling to keep from lunging to conclusions.

"That's exactly what I intend to do," Lord Kevern said. His face was shrouded in the soft shadows, hiding his expression.

Reina had enough.

"You intend to _make _a guardian spirit? Lord Kevern, it's not the same as conquerin' a buildin'," Reina barked, almost dropping her staff as she shook her paws at the warlord. "Seasons ago, you promised we were doin' this for ourselves, an' to show everyone here what we were capable of; are you droppin' to the point where you're goin' to copy the woodlanders to outstrip them? To create an imitation of what they'll always have an' we won't? This isn't what we wanted; this isn't what _you_ wanted, Kevern—"

"I'm not going to make us into their shadows to even the field!" Lord Kevern snapped, and the ferret began frantically pacing back and forth in front of the fire, hitting the stride he'd been building up to long before Reina even set foot in the room. "Do you believe that's what I'm doing, Reina? Reducing us into mimickers that cannot hope to match the woodlanders? Everyone here has suffered enough; I will not make them lower beings to a group that is only superior in their own heads," he growled.

The warlord waved a paw at the expanse of his room and the window. "That's why I didn't conquer this abbey when it was entirely finished for us by the woodlanders. We are not pathetic leeches that can only steal from them and never create. We took what was ours, and we finished this building with our own paws, to make everyone else feel as if it was _their _creation and home. The last bricks were laid in our own sweat and blood. Greyspire belongs to no woodlander. And I will not invalidate that effort and spit on what was earned by lowering us again," Lord Kevern said, giving Reina a significant look, and the rat clenched her teeth at everything he was wordlessly accusing her of.

"You lowered us enough when you built a dungeon," Reina said in a low voice. "I don't remember you speakin' of imprisonment when we both—"

"Don't bring up this up again, Reina," Kevern said. Aged and harsh warning leaked out into his voice, his ears pinning back. "I have already told you the reasons for my choices. I will not repeat them."

"You asked for a separate opinion, an' I gave you one… milord," Reina said. The anger in her words was forcefully lessened. Kevern's pace seemed to slow.

Reina was struggling to get her compulsions under control— and she could see Kevern already shutting his down and retreating into the shell of armor and red-cloaked finery that came with being a warlord to protect himself— and everything that was to be said and pain to be felt was only old wounds. There was nothing left here to be prodded that hadn't already been ripped open and healed over again, and there was no new injury.

"I do not repeat my old reasons and decisions, and you should not repeat your old opinions regarding them," Warlord Kevern said. Reina could already see every feeling he didn't need falling back into their neat places, locked behind the solid and controlled mask of his face.

It took her less than a moment to follow suit.

"…fine, then," Reina said quietly. "I won't speak of old things. I'll only tell you what I think about the newer ones, milord."

As if he didn't know what she was thinking, Reina thought. As if he hadn't known the bare bones of what she going to say the instant the idea came to his head and he realized he would need to speak to his second-in-command about it.

"And what do you think?" Lord Kevern said. He was no longer pacing. Lord Kevern had stopped in front of the fire, though not quite in the light, and there was a solid distance between him and Reina. The rat had no fear of it being closed. Some things occurred no longer.

"I don't even understand how you could think of pullin' this off," Reina said. "The only ghosts we could find around here would be those of dead abbeybeasts an' woodlanders, an' well… they wouldn't even be in the abbey. How would you find one? How would you make one guide us? To make a guardian spirit…"

Reina hesitated as she ran out of words. Lord Kevern didn't look fazed. Thoughtful, yes, Reina thought, but not fazed. If his face hadn't been so guarded, he would've almost had the same expression as the day he made up his mind and told he was going to challenge Moklafrist. Almost.

"We don't want a wraith or a curse, no," Lord Kevern said. "If we put a beast to death that is probably what we'd receive. The reason Redwall has a guardian is because one devoted beast that lived within that building chose to remain there after death. If we found one similar, we could achieve the same effect."

"Milord, we need this to happen within our lifetime," Reina pointed out. She twisted the bottom of her staff into the stone. "Are you suggestin' we find a saint somewhere in here an' then wait for them to die— an' just hope that they'll stay around?"

"Not even remotely close," Lord Kevern said. A cold, steely look settled in his eyes, identical to one he had before entering combat. "We would find a willing, capable volunteer and make it clear to them what we need. The process of their passing away wouldn't be slow, I assure you."

From the expression on his face, Reina didn't doubt him. Moklafrist had. So did the previous abbot of Icebloom, and the various troubles that had tried to come to the abbey since.

Every one of them but Reina had ended up in the same place.

"That sounds like a recipe for a martyr instead," she said.

"I placed emphasis on this being _voluntary, _Reina," Lord Kevern replied. "Without that, attempting to do this is pointless. It is only bloodshed on our home. But if we don't do this… well. I am feeling unsettled and suggesting we create a guardian for a reason. How to go about it or whether it should happen is something I need your input on."

There was a long pause in the room. The fire flickered as a log behind the grate broke and crumbled down into the bottom, sending red sparks flying into the air.

"…give me time, Kevern," Reina said, sensing the ferret stepping closer to her. She watched the logs burn in the fireplace and sparks hiss against the grate instead of looking at the warlord's face. "I can't give you an answer or advice to what to do about this in a few minutes. It's somethin' that'll take a while to decide. Just give me some time."

Mercifully, unlike in the past, Kevern remained silent.

Reina finally looked up from the fireplace. Lord Kevern had turned his head to watch the snow falling outside the nearby window. Part of the drearier, whiter light leaking through the glass illuminated his fur, and the light streaks in the ferret's fur looked that much paler. He seemed separated from almost everything.

"Milord," Reina said. Lord Kevern looked back at her. Reina gently gestured at the cloak pin that hung over her throat. "You might want to fix that."

Kevern glanced down at his cloak and the golden brooch over it, frowning slightly when he saw how uneven it was. He unclipped the brooch and untied the tassel. Kevern briefly hesitated, holding the golden pin and his cloak with one paw. Instead of straightening everything and tying it back together in a few seconds the way he usually did, the ferret moved over to Reina. The rat only blinked once when Kevern passed the tassel and brooch to her paw. She fleetingly felt the rough scrape of his fingers against hers, their surfaces as calloused and harshly-treated as ever.

Reina popped open the brooch's needle pin and drew the red cloak closed with it, adjusting it to be centered and immaculate. The taller Kevern bent down in order to allow her to reach his neck. Both of them remained silent as Reina snapped the brooch shut and tied the tassel around it. Kevern looked as regal as always, Reina thought as she adjusted the tassel, red cloak and spoils of battle and all. But he'd never appeared different.

The rat pulled away when she was finished. Kevern lifted his head and stepped back, looking every inch the well-dressed and composed warlord, and Reina returned to the role she had never left of being the limping and helpful second-in-command.

"Thank you, Reina," Kevern said.

Reina nodded back, already trying to keep back the snarled and writhing thoughts in her head about what he had asked of her to consider. A quiet little part within the rat cursed the loyalty and feebly beating piece of her that felt optimism for his words. The rest of her ignored everything.

"You're welcome," Reina said. "Kevern."

The rat limped from the room once the ferret warlord nodded and dismissed her. She closed the door behind her and left him to his own devices as she went down the hall, heading towards one of the louder parts of Greyspire. The majority of beasts were moving in and out of the building now, working hard to keep earning their next meals their lord had promised them. They were cleaning, hauling in firewood, going to class, and doing whatever else the modified abbey needed in order to keep running. Reina could hear the laughter, lecturing, and arguing of hundreds of different vermin as she moved past every corridor and door.

As she descended down the stairs, Reina decided to move towards one of the back passages of Greyspire to keep from getting in their way. She was next to useless to them outside of relaying messages to Lord Kevern, and Reina had no intention of entering his room again so soon until she sorted out the mess that had somehow managed to just sink its teeth into her life. A _guardian spirit— _what in all Dark Forest was Kevern thinking?!

Probably the same thing he'd been thinkin' when he killed Moklafrist, and took the abbey, and gave her a place as second-in-command instead of keeping her father instead, Reina thought. The rat's face twisted as she swallowed the tint of resentment— and surprising amount of pain— that came from realizing that some things never changed, though the situations did.

But Reina knew well enough how and why things worked, and her meditations were broken when she heard footsteps pattering up the hall behind her. The female rat turned around to see who it was, her dark cloak swinging after her.

A rather fidgety pine marten maid with a few ink stains on her habit and budding hips approached her from further down the hall. She was twitching now and then, and nervously chewing on her lip and tilting back her ears as she wrung at something between her paws and muttered a few things to herself, but Reina remained patient as she came closer. The poor thing's fur was on end, and she looked ready to claw a hole in the floor where she stood and crawl into it when she finally made it over to Reina. The rat politely tilted her head to look at the squirming marten. From her height and the way the habit fit her form, she couldn't have been over fourteen seasons at the most.

"Hello. Do you need somethin'?" Reina said. The marten seemed to snap out of whatever little crisis she was having right then and there and looked up at the rat's face. Her wide mismatched eyes— one brown and one hazel— seemed to have trouble staying on Reina's for too long. Reina swore she was going to overheat from apparent embarrassment from the look of her fluffed fur.

"Miss Reina," the marten burst out, fishing a clumsily tied scroll from her habit sleeve, "I need your 'elp. Just— just for 'un thin'."

The marten took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Reina raised her eyebrows when the maid quietly muttered something to herself about 'oh Vulpez, don't be stupid an' upchuck 'o somethin'; now 'o never.' A moment later, the mustelid awkwardly lifted her arm, holding out the squished scroll over to Reina. It was tied shut with a flimsy piece of string, and a few splattered droplets of ink clung to the sides. Reina could see the overlying silhouettes of painstakingly scrawled words through the sides of the scroll.

"My name's Cinderfang," the marten said. "An'— an' could you please take this ta L-lord Kevern?"

* * *

A.N.: Well, there's a sad lack of the Fire siblings this chapter, but it shall all come together. Any current thoughts on Reina and Kevern? I do enjoy writing them, I'll admit that. I'd had this scene in mind for a while, so it came out fairly quickly, and I wrote this all in nearly one day… whew, now I need to get some sleep. No more fast updates for a little while.

-SL


	6. Chapter 5

"_Squads three an' four will hit the horde from the right. One an' two will hit them from the left. Take no prisoners, an' make sure you drive the scum back away from the village."_

"_Sir, yes, sir!"_

"_This is your second mission, not your first, an' I expect all of you to treat it as such. There will be no mistakes. You have lives relyin' on you. Is that understood?"_

"_Yes, sir!"_

"_Then move out! An' Farflit?"_

"_Yes, sir?"_

"_If you try to defy me again, you'll be discharged an' left behind."_

"…"

"_Is that understood, Farflit?"_

"…"

"_FARFLIT!"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"…_I thought so."_

* * *

It didn't take too long to realize the side of his mouth was swelling up.

Farflit cursed under his breath, reaching up a paw to feel at the tender corner of his jaw. He had hit that rock wall harder than he'd expected, though Yang wasn't ever one to hold back. The fox pulled back his fingers and came away with faint traces of leftover blood from the trickle he'd wiped away with the back of his paw. He studied it with little interest, licking the inside of his mouth to try and sooth the cut his teeth had made.

Around him, the other miners remained permanently unsettled, all of them arguing and quarreling in one form or another over what was going to happen. Some of the more uneasy ones were getting a break from work after Wringer's speech, for everybeast's patience and sanity. Many still carried their hammers and sledges, and vermin of all species were now bristling with their regular weapons as well.

If they'd have been tidied up and dressed in uniforms, it would've reminded Farflit of Mavern and home, but seeing the collection of swearing, drinking, riffraff they were, it didn't quite feel that way. They looked like a bloody horde camp, Farflit thought. He rested his paw on the hilt of one of his dual swords, feeling the loss of his shorter, more unobtrusive dagger.

Farflit recognized only half of the beasts from Yang's general group. He had never frequently visited the other fox soldier. After what had just happened, that wasn't likely to change, Farflit thought. He almost snorted at that thought, but the action hurt him, in more ways than one.

He had yet to see Laikan since their job was finished. Farflit wasn't sure that he'd be seeing the tattooed rat too soon. Laikan was naturally paranoid; it was how he'd stayed alive on a boat of filthy corsairs an' been one of them, Farflit thought. Of course this whole event would've put him on edge. How long he would remain there towards his fox friend, however, was another question entirely.

Farflit rubbed the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth for a moment. But Hellgates, this had gone straight downhill beyond easily…

* * *

It was Laikan who broke away from the group gathered outside the deep mineshaft to go retrieve a lantern.

The tattooed rat had taken a step back from cursing Gittem the instant he had heard Shaal's voice issuing from the hollow passage, and the whole assembled quintet had frozen for a few moments of silence. For a split second, Farflit had wondered how that silence must've sounded to Shaal, who was standing blindly in a noiseless, sunless tunnel, without anything but their voices to show that somebeast was waiting for him on the outside.

Then Laikan had walked away, giving a nod to Wringer as he did— though there was a brief look of discomfort on the rat's face, and the tattoo serpents and fish along his back squirmed more than necessary— and Farflit had returned to common sense. There was no way possible Shaal would have registered just the several seconds of silence, Farflit thought, and he would have felt nothing about its existence. Age aside, Shaal was better trained than that.

But Farflit and Yang were still tensed in front of the tunnel as they waited for Laikan— both of the foxes' fur bristling with uneasiness— and Wringer stood right behind them, not looking quite as relaxed as before. If the atmosphere got any more wary, Farflit thought, taking a slow step to the side, then a lesser hedgehog than Mellia would curl up into a prickly ball of quills.

There was another dismal creak of ropes and pulleys. Yang almost jumped at the lurch of motion, and the Damsontongue turned to give a venomous look towards Gittem. The giant stoat shrank back with a slight look of sheepishness on his face when he felt Yang's glare on him.

"Stop turnin' the crank, you pillock," Yang growled. Farflit could sense the verbal whipping towards Gittem coming on if the stoat kept his incompetency up. I'll add to it if it gets started and doesn't get through his head, Farflit thought. Which it won't.

"I didn't mean ta do it that time, really—" Gittem said.

"What was that?"

Yang raised his paw towards Gittem's face in a flat sign to shut up, and the stoat obediently trailed off his bumbling with a look of confusion on his face. Farflit leaned towards the mine entrance, beating the thin-faced Yang to doing so.

"Nothin', Shaal. We just have Gittem up here," he said. "His amount of intelligence is as high up as the mineshaft you're in."

"…alright," Shaal said, sounding wary, and Farflit could picture his scruffy little neck bristling like a patch of briars, and his ears and unnerved blue eyes slowly turning to scan the darkness. It was only a step away from the same reaction he'd had while being on sentry duty during the second slave-line incident.

Laikan needed to speed his sorry tail up.

The ex-corsair may have not had class or a clean record— or pelt, for that matter— but he did have one Hellgates of a sense of timing, Farflit thought, glimpsing Laikan's approaching form the instant after his annoyed thought was over. The rat approached with a lantern and coiled rope in paw, hurrying each footstep, and he looked over his shoulder as there was a surge of sound from the other part of the quarry. A bell rang.

"BACK TO WORK!" one of the other overseers roared. His call echoed across the boulder and cliff-peppered quarry, and with a lurch of sound— the tromping of feet, picking up of axes, groaning of last second complaints and spitting out the corners of mouths— the rest of the quarry came alive again.

Farflit heard no footsteps approaching their disused section of the mines.

"Laikan, you might want ta hurry up with that lantern," Wringer said, casually turning his head to look back at the rat, who had frozen when he'd heard the 'return to work' call. "Erskine's probably not goin' ta like the thought of Shaal takin' a nap in an old tunnel 'o us slackin' off. Mmm, that neither of 'em sound that bad, actually…"

"He tolerates it enough from you; I think he could bear it from us just for a few minutes," Mellia said. Farflit could still hear a hard line of tension in her voice, one that seemed to come with all older beasts and higher-ranking soldiers, but some of the budding stiffness both in her and the atmosphere seemed to drop. Just hearing the old, calm banter between Wringer and Mellia cleared the air. Fur on the back of Yang's neck and tail stopped its bristling, and Farflit could feel some of his own fur starting to lie flat. It felt more like the situation had a bad taste to it rather than splintering into something nasty.

Farflit stood up a bit taller than before instead of taking the semi-crouch he had been falling into… but refused to let all of his tension vanish. Rule number one of Mavern: never be caught off guard. Farflit had done that once. It'd cost him half a damn tail and his dignity. That wasn't going to repeat itself, Farflit thought, watching Laikan move forward with the lantern. No matter how much talking Wringer did.

Hellgates knew why, but hearing Wringer's voice in the midst of trouble was the equivalent of havin' a sedative herb bunch shoved down your throat— which Farflit was also unfortunately familiar with. The weasel kept completely calm and still always talked with the same indulgent drawl, whether he was just bantering about pointless tripe with Mellia or trying to explain to Erskine why there were twelve miners dead in one day with irretrievable bodies.

It was part of the number one rule of being a leader to the point of being novice, Farflit thought. Keep calm, and ensure those you lead remain so as well.

Laikan took the match he had palmed off of an unknowing Gittem's pocket and lit the lantern while Yang and Farflit watched him like hawks. Mellia lifted the coil of the rope tied to the lantern, and Wringer moved aside as Laikan and the hedgehog prepared to lower the lantern down the mineshaft. Yang clicked his fangs together impatiently at their slow actions— Mellia in particular. But both foxes stepped aside as Laikan cautiously dangled the light into the darkness and began to lower it down.

Farflit heard Shaal's breath of relief as the sliver of caged sun became visible, illuminating the rough and jagged peaks of the rock sides of the tunnel. It passed by the side of the pulley platform that Gittem had stopped lowering, revealing the thick platform's cracked wood slides and dusty edges. Laikan fed more string to the lantern. It went down further, clicking against the rock and wavering along as it went. The light played over Shaal's upward tilted face and the interlocking rows of flat, shining rocks that enwrapped the entire lower side of the tunnel like a blanket of carved riches. The lantern neatly landed on the floor.

It took everyone a moment to realize that the shining rocks were the scales of the four adders curled around the sides of the mineshaft.

For a moment, Shaal's dye-striped face was still filled with relief over having a light down in the lonely and pitch-black mine, and Farflit could see the happiness in his expression. Then Shaal realized he was surrounded by sluggish adders. The fox froze, his blue eyes bulging out slightly. His mouth opened as a low, disbelieving whine curled out of his throat like someone was choking him.

"Shaal, don't move," Wringer ordered, moving forward and clenching Laikan's shoulder to prevent the rat from leaping back. Farflit's fur was on end, and his tongue suddenly seemed to be swelling up and blocking his throat. Yang was a frozen, brittle statue right outside the tunnel. Mellia was muttering a low prayer. "They're not goin' ta pay attention to you if you don't move; don't reach for the lantern, an' don't make any noise."

Shaal opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The fox closed it and gave a low shudder as he looked behind him and saw the rest of the gaping, empty tunnel. Farflit could already feel his heart throbbing in his mouth as Shaal gave a mute nod, his young face paled, and the hideous, dank smell of adder filled Farflit's nose without bidding.

There was a tiny shift of wood and creaking as Gittem craned his head up from behind the pulley. He could see nothing but the tense, frozen backs of the beasts in front of him and their bristling fur and quills. The huge stoat curiously scratched his head.

"What's goin' on?" he said. Farflit felt his clueless voice cutting through everything like a blunt saw. "Is Shaal not down there 'o somethin'? The tunnels en't very nice when they're dark 'o nothin'."

"Yes, Gittem, Shaal is down there," Mellia said, responding to the vermin before Yang or Farflit could spit something foul at him. "He's just… having some difficulties." Mellia turned to the weasel overseer next to her, her headspikes prickling. "Wringer?"

Wringer stared down at the frozen and faintly quivering Shaal as one of the adders slowly began to stretch their tail around the back of the tunnel. He ignored the hollow sound in Mellia's voice and the way Laikan's eyes were flitting between him and the mineshaft.

"Shaal," he said, his voice flat and calm, "if you were given the chance, could you run back the way you came?"

"I don't know," Shaal said shakily.

"Better figure out fast…" Laikan muttered under his breath. Yang tensed further.

Farflit could see Shaal's training unraveling right at the small fox's feet as the mass of ropey adder flesh lazily began to move again. Scales rippled on their own accord— and Farflit still couldn't see the head, or heads. _Damnit. _One of the adders was getting active, and the fox had no idea which one the hell it was.

"I had ta slowly feel my way up the tunnel since my lantern went out," Shaal said, his voice hitting a new high pitch, "an' I didn't— _bloody Vulpez they're movin'._"

"Shaal, stop," Yang barked, drawing his dagger as the trapped fox lurched backwards before stiffening in place. The younger vermin's eyes were widening in horror as something stirred beneath the platform Gittem had tried to lower. Yang and Farflit and their unsheathed weapons were helpless and blind to what was rising from below rotten boards.

Farflit glanced back towards the darkened part of the mine, but he could see nothing beyond what the flickering lantern illuminated— and the scaly tail that was slowly stretching out behind Shaal. The way was fading, and the grey fox was being trapped… though if the adders began to move around more, the tunnel Shaal couldn't reach would be easily accessible for them, Farflit thought, his blood running as cold as that of the snakes.

Shaal and Yang hadn't blocked up the tunnel behind them. There was a gaping hole that led straight out into their main mining passage— and it was currently filled with hundreds of other oblivious miners who had just gone back to work, not bothering to remain still or keep their voices down. That passage interlocked with others... and they led to others. Anybeast who said adders were stupid could go to Hellgates; Farflit knew no cursed kin of Asmodeus could be dumb. If they moved back down the tunnel and scented stirring blood and bodies in the new, open mine, the snakes could easily go down it. And nearly everybeast there would be caught off guard and trapped by their sheer numbers.

It could be the western tunnel massacre all over again, Farflit thought. Adrenaline and fear stabbed through his body at the thought of venom-clogged corpses rotting in the mines again.

Wringer seemed to reach the same conclusion at that very moment. The weasel tilted his head towards Mellia, who looked up expectantly. Wringer ran a claw over his whip handle.

"Mellia, could you tell every'un in the second shale-quarter mine that I need ta speak ta them outside?"

Mellia blinked in surprise, and Laikan seemed to utter yet another filthy oath. He had infinite stock of them. "You want me to tell them that you want to speak to them, right _now_?" Mellia said.

"Yes," Wringer said. "Except you don't know where I am, so they're just goin' ta have ta leave the mine an' wait for me. Tis a pity." The weasel looked to Laikan as realization dawned on the hedgehog's face. "Go help her out an' keep them busy for a little while, will you? The shale-beasts en't got much patience."

"On it, sir," Laikan said. He grabbed Mellia's wrist and gave it a tug, eagerly trying to get the woodlander moving and dislodge her worried eyes from Wringer, Farflit, and Gittem. Mellia pulled her arm from his loose grip and turned to leave the tunnel entrance.

"All of you… be careful," she said. Wringer gave her a short two-fingered salute. Farflit didn't meet her eyes, still busy with his intent stare at the slowly suffocating Shaal, and Gittem— who finally seemed to get it through his boulder of a skull that something was wrong— gave her a silent nod. The lumbering hedgehog and rat hurried away to the active part of the quarry, quickly disappearing around the jagged turns of the rock.

"We have to retrieve him before the adders are no longer slow," Yang said, stepping towards Wringer the instant the other two vermin had gone. "How?"

Farflit frowned, but Yang coldly stepped in front of him before the other fox could open his mouth. Yang knew of Farflit's usual suggestions. He would not tolerate them with his wide-eyed protégé walking the line belowground. But of course he wouldn't, Farflit thought, because it was Shaal, and not some other soldier. Some of Farflit's old agitation resurfaced before it vanished underneath the wave of fear again as Shaal gave a muffled whimper.

The tail of one of the adders finally curled closer and blocked off Shaal's retreat to the rest of the tunnel in a winding wall of scales and one glimmering patch of raw, scale-shaped bare skin. The exit was gone.

Shaal turned back around and moved closer towards the lantern, frantically looking right and left at the coils of snake surrounding him. The stench of death and adder musk grew stronger— though there was no difference between them.

"Yang," Shaal said hollowly, shivering as his eyes moved up to the mineshaft entrance. Yang turned away from Wringer in an instant, shoving Farflit aside and stalking over to the pit. The younger fox pleadingly looked up at him. "Yang, get me out of here."

"Shaal, we are workin' on it," Yang said, trying to give some gestures of comfort. It failed to look soothing with his dagger in paw. "Remain calm."

"If you can't jump over the adder's tail, climb up here, 'o you're goin' to be inside 'un," Farflit barked. Despite his training, Shaal was too naïve; Shaal held onto too much hope in situations where he should be movin' instead of standing still and gazing up at his higher-ranked mentors. Shaal always got himself hurt, Farflit thought, focusing only on the trapped fox's wince and feeling Yang's hateful look scorching his back.

_Snap out of it,_ _Shaal, damn you._

"Farflit, back off," Yang growled.

"As much as I'd hate ta point it out, Farflit is right," Wringer said. He moved past both of the foxes and Yang's glare to stand in the mouth of the mineshaft. "Shaal, you need ta move while they're still slow. Once they warm up, things en't goin' ta be pretty. Come ta the platform an' climb up."

"You kin do it," Gittem piped up helpfully.

"But—" Shaal said, staring at something underneath the platform. "There's 'un of them under it, an' it's too high! I kin't—"

"You have no time, Shaal," Farflit said. Yang begrudgingly nodded his head after looking between Wringer and Farflit. Shaal nervously licked his lips, his eyes darting all around him as something began to gradually churn within the bodies of the adders, gently probing their lengths. A thick rope of muscle curled behind Shaal instead of just a tapering tail.

"Hellgates—" Shaal said, his fur standing on end as he jumped a few steps forward to get away from it. He almost kicked the lantern over in his panic, the flame light dancing over his fur.

"Gittem, lower the platform a few more feet," Wringer ordered, seeing the distance between Shaal and the rigged-up sledge. The stoat gave a grunt and a heave of his bulky arms. The pulleys creaked, ropes groaning and spinning, and the platform moved down a few feet… only to be stopped by a look of frustration on Gittem's face, and one of fear on Shaal's.

"I don't know if it's goin' ta go lower," Gittem said, arms flexing as he shoved the pulley crank a bit harder. "Somethin's blockin' it from—"

"Don't move it. I'm goin'," Shaal said, taking a step back and preparing himself for the leap. He took a deep breath— an action that Farflit had to struggle not to mimic— muttered a curse or promise to himself, and ran towards the platform. The fox leaped within an arm's length of the piled-up adders around him.

Shaal's legs hung over the side of the platform for three seconds before he managed to clamber up on it. It was enough.

The grey fox was getting to his feet and preparing to climb up the last increment of the mineshaft before Yang could take his paw when Farflit heard the low hiss. Shaal completely froze. The young vulpine looked down slowly, not daring to move the rest of his rigid body.

His blue eyes widened and Farflit's fur stood on absolute end when a forked tongue fluttered near Shaal's heel, peeping up from underneath the platform. There was the sound of something uncurling like several husks of dead leaves rattling together. Something moved in the murk.

"Shaal, _keep still,_" Yang growled, tightening his fingers around his dagger and staring at the scaly nose poking up from beneath the platform. Farflit was filled with the sudden urge to find a spear or ram his own blade into the thing rising from the dark, and Shaal looked ready to retch right then an' there.

It was coming, Farflit thought, seeing another flicker of the disgusting tongue as the triangle-shaped head of an adder lay itself on the platform nearly right on Shaal's foot. Marble eyes with slit-shaped pupils and no eyelids— as if Vulpez has sliced them right off— became apparent in the dim lantern light. A squashed semicircle of festering punctures lined the juncture of its neck. Farflit could sense Yang trying to keep his composure, and Wringer was beginning to unthread his whip from its loops. It wasn't his spiked whip, but one plain weapon was better than none.

The adder was small when compared to the monster that was blocking the back of the tunnel with its side, or its other Hellgates-damned companions that were lazily beginning to shift their coils from their pile and poke tongues into the air, but it was definitely faster. Shaal gave a silent whimper as its tongue tickled his heel and leg.

"What do I do now?" he said, his voice beginning to crack with hysteria. Yang leaned forward, getting on his knees and laying his paws on the edge of the mineshaft entrance.

"Shaal, listen ta me," Yang said. "As long as you do not panic, we are goin' to get you out, you understand me?" Farflit had to bite his tongue almost hard enough to punch a hole in it to keep himself silent.

Shaal nodded his head, his face pale, and he swallowed hard as he felt the adder's nose nudge the back of his leg. The fox struggled to keep his heaving chest under control and his horrified eyes from looking down as the adder's body gave a ripple, and it pulled more of itself up onto the platform. Scuffed up scales joined the scraped nose that was resting on the wood. Farflit could see raw, dulled spots of skin the shade of rotted flesh littering the adder's coils. Scales had been ripped off.

Taking a deep breath, Shaal put all his weight on his leg the adder was nudging. He gradually raised his other one with his tail and paws shaking, and the fox took a step forward. The sound of the creaking wood when he stepped down dug splinters into Farflit's skin. Shaal wasn't the only one on the platform who'd felt that, Farflit thought.

The adder froze, its diamond pupils darting up. Shaal stiffened an instant later. He stared at the snake, shakily licking his lips as he stretched and gradually slipped his foot away from the adder's nose. Watching Shaal move at the agonizing slow pace was like having to see him go through balance training all over again, Farflit thought, but there was no river or companions underneath him to catch him if he fell— not the kind that would save him, at any rate.

Shaal finally managed to free his foot from the adder's immediate reach and delicately eased it down. Yang was almost ready to bust open a heart vein with impatience as Shaal tiptoed over to the mineshaft wall. If Gittem raised the platform, there was a chance it would disturb the adder that now had two or three coils pulled up on the wood. Shaal would still have to climb a few feet before Yang and Farflit could help him out and Wringer could take care of the adder.

Shaal had himself pressed against the rocks and one arm up, ready to begin climbing, when the adder slithered forward and curled itself around his leg.

Farflit saw the young fox swallow down a scream.

Shaal shuddered as the adder wound around him tighter, and his whole chest was heaving harder than that of an injured hummingbird. Shaal's leg vanished in a pile of coils and scales, and a flickering tongue began to probe at his other ankle. The lantern light began to dim as the other snakes became more restless and started to crisscross the place Shaal had been standing not minutes ago. Farflit saw more than one head moving.

"Yang," Shaal said. Yang looked down sharply, tearing his eyes from the small sea of adders beginning to fill the mine floor. Shaal was desperately beginning to reach his arms up, digging his claws into the rock, and Farflit swore his eyes were twice as wide with fear. "Yang, I don't want ta die."

"You are not goin' to," Yang said, immediately leaning towards Shaal, and Farflit wanted to backhand him for making a promise he couldn't keep. The adder was practically engulfing Shaal's leg now. It was enjoying the heat, after so long of being in the frigid mine. "I am goin' ta get you out, Shaal."

Yang was getting repetitive, Farflit thought. Repetitiveness was the same as denial.

Shaal closed his eyes and silently trembled against the stone as he felt the adder's head pull back to scrutinize him. Farflit could see the gears inside Yang's head turning, and suddenly— as Yang narrowed his eyes and he crouched a little lower— Farflit understood.

Yang had always favored Shaal in their training, Farflit thought. He had always had that chink in his armor for the younger Damsontongue. The adders were stirring, but as Shaal desperately raised his arms up and clawed at the rocks, Farflit had no doubt Yang would try to lean down and pull up Shaal anyway— even with the snake wrapped around his leg, and now moving up to his waist. That snake was slow, but it was still an adder. Shaal would get bit. Yang would get bit. Two lives would be pointlessly wasted.

One beast was already as good as dead, Farflit thought, feeling the rush of fearful adrenaline as Yang knelt further down and prepared to reach for Shaal, but if he was going to lose one companion, he wasn't going to let another die and make that two. Yang had saved his life once despite the icy, string-less attachment to the act; Farflit wasn't about to let him throw himself away for a doomed, soft, less-skilled fox.

There was one option.

_I'm sorry, Shaal._

Farflit ignored the odd look Wringer gave him and went to kneel by Yang's side. He shoved the other fox over and ignored the way Yang tensed as Farflit boldly leaned into the shadowed mouth of the tunnel. Shaal had opened his eyes from earlier, and they were quivering with unshed tears of horror. The adder had arched its neck to investigate Shaal's side. Farflit could just see it binding its time now, waiting for something more and allowing the fox's body to help warm it. Shaal's entire left leg was vanished into its bruised loose coils. The smell of rot drifted from the tunnel.

For one reason or another, Shaal chose that moment to look right at Farflit instead of Yang. Farflit had no idea why the Hellgates he would, or why his eyes widened so hopefully when he did, but if Shaal's eyes had been pools of water, the scruffy grey fox would have drowned in the look Shaal was giving him now.

"F-farflit," Shaal said. Farflit could hear the weak plead in his words, and the way he stretched his arms out a final useless increment and beseechingly looked up made Shaal seem like a cub. But then again, he'd always been twelve seasons younger than all of them, at the least. "Farflit, _help me_."

Farflit rolled his dagger over in his paws. He shut everything else out but the mess of squirming adders in the tunnel below. With luck, Yang or Gittem wouldn't kill him. Wringer knew about practicality. The weasel would be on his side for the moment. Farflit didn't dare to think what it would do to him if Wringer didn't approve, or worse. Shaal still stared up, begging to be free of the chain of adder around him.

"I am," Farflit said.

Yang realized too late what Farflit was doing when the fox drew back his dagger-wielding arm.

"NO!"

With the deadly aim of the all-weapons training course Farflit and Yang had been forced to march through, Farflit threw the blade straight at the adder's face, sinking it hilt-deep into the snake's eye. There was a splatter of crimson and wretched, hissing scream that felt like shattered glass being crammed down Farflit's ears, and the agonized adder sank its fangs gum-deep into Shaal's side. Shaal screamed and let go of the rock wall, his cry echoing out of the mineshaft like a magnified call from Hellgates, the adder released him to thrash in its agonies, and the young fox was sent tumbling off the edge of the platform by its writhing coils.

The last Farflit saw of him was a glimpse of blue eyes, dye stripes, and a blood splotched tunic, and he fell into the abyss of twined adder bodies and scales before another demented hiss signaled the sweep of a gnawed-on serpentine tail. The lantern was sent crashing over. It went out.

Shaal screamed one last time before the sea of snakes swallowed him. His voice died in a gurgle moments afterwards.

_Crunch._ Farflit felt pain shoot through his back as Yang slammed him up against the side of the mineshaft by his throat. Rocks jabbed into his flesh.

"You worthless, impulsive _scumsucker_—"

Farflit drew back one arm, preparing to guard himself from the drawn dagger in Yang's free paw, and he grabbed for Yang's fingers around his throat, gripping his thumb and getting ready to twist it and snap the bone. There was a flash of black line in the air, Gittem yelled something from behind the pulley crank, and the end of a whip wrapped around Yang's dagger and ripped it out of his fingers. It almost skinned his knuckles in the process. The dagger went flying through the air, hitting the rock ground and skidding away with a clink of medal. Yang felt Farflit preparing to break his finger, and he immediately grabbed the shorter fox's wrist and slammed it up against the rock wall, half pinning him. Farflit felt his unprotected belly and groin instantly become prime targets, and he could already see Yang's knee jerking back and preparing to nail him even as he got ready to snap Yang's thumb and free himself.

There was another hiss in the air that belonged to no snake, and Yang stumbled and almost cracked heads with Farflit as a whip wrapped around his drawn-back leg. He fell right on top of his source of rage, and abruptly, Farflit was far more up close to an angry Yang than he'd ever wanted.

"I said, Yang, that's enough," Wringer said, pulling his whip snug to keep Yang's leg held back. "We've already had 'un death here, an' t'wasn't fun. How about we try ta keep more from happenin'?"

The weasel still had a calm, lazy look on his face, but there was something dangerously sharp lurking in his eyes. Everybeast else there present knew what it meant. Yang was forced to swallow down the rest of his lingering impulses to crush Farflit's throat, though he didn't pry his fingers away. Farflit was torn between releasing Yang's thumb and still keepin' a hold on it to make sure he had one small advantage.

Gittem was hovering behind the pulley crank, looking as though his limited bit of brains had blown on what to do. Farflit had killed a friend, Farflit was bad and needed to hurt; Farflit had been saved by Mr. Wringer, Farflit was good and didn't need to hurt. The stoat was going to kill himself thinking too hard, Farflit thought, feeling some blood well up in the side of his mouth, though that wasn't saying much.

Yang was momentarily torn between looking back and forth from Wringer and Farflit, but he refocused when he saw the first bead of blood growing on the corner of Farflit's lips and the expression on the other fox's face.

"You— even after the slave-line incident, you still—" Yang stopped trying to find words. He narrowed his eyes, looking like an adder himself, and Farflit could see hate and permanently unshed tears growing in the fox's eyes. Neither the Damsontongue nor the snakes could cry, Farflit thought. He momentarily felt Yang's fingers tighten around his throat.

"You will _end_ 'un day for this," Yang snarled under his breath. Farflit could feel the other fox's nose grinding into his, and he pulled back his ears in disgust at the angry, hot breath that was curling his whiskers. "Whether it is due to me 'o an adder reachin' you first."

"The latter is what I was tryin' to prevent," Farflit spat, his ire rising. Sacrifices were sacrifices; Shaal had unfortunately been one of them. Did Yang think he found this _enjoyable? _That wide-eyed, undertrained Shaal had meant nothing to him? "An' I don't think any adder is goin' to be comin' after me 'o any other minin' beast here after they're sealed up in their tunnel. Full snakes are slow, an' they'll be too busy fightin' over a scrap of food to leave the shaft," Farflit added coldly, seeing the disbelieving look on Yang's face.

It was enough to turn the expression of skepticism into a complete raw desire to punch Farflit in the goddamn face. Farflit had no doubt it would've happened if Wringer hadn't casually tugged on his whip again, reminding Yang of his position.

"I'd say that this is enough outta both of you," Wringer said. The weasel gave a neat flick of his wrist, and his whip went limp, allowing Yang to lower his leg. The corded material quickly slithered back towards its owner. "Gittem, lower the platform more, if you kin. We don't want the snakes gettin' an extra boost an' crawlin' out. Yang, go with some of your friends an' seal up the tunnel you opened up," Wringer said, turning his gaze back to the tribal fox as Yang backed away from Farflit, both of them giving each other icy glares. Gittem gave a grunt and began lowering the platform. "You also might want ta break them the news— an' don't be breakin' anythin' 'o anybeast else after that, alright?"

Wringer gave some of his special not-quite-glare to Yang, making it clear what he meant, and the Damsontongue gave a jerky nod of his head.

"Yes, sir," he said, giving one last venomous look towards Farflit. "I will do that now."

Yang stalked away with all the grace of a passing thunderstorm, roughly clawing Farflit's stomach as he went. Farflit bit back a vile curse as the other fox vanished with a swish of his long tail before he could do anything. The scraped lines along his skin burned. Farflit didn't even have to look up to know Wringer's eyes were on him next. He still forced himself to do so.

"Farflit, you an' Laikan come back here an' board this tunnel up again," Wringer said, as unruffled as if Yang's parting gesture had never happened. "Make sure each board is sturdy; go get Gittem's help if you want ta chuck a rock in front of it for good measure. None of those snakes are gettin' out of there again, regardless of whatever reason they were lingerin' around in there ta start with."

"Yes, sir," Farflit said, tone hoarse thanks to Yang throttling him. The Damsontongues had always had a strong grip. Even Shaal.

"I also expect ta see you in my outpost office after I'm done talkin' with Erskine," Wringer added casually. "Your reasonin' is understood, but it en't exactly appreciated by every'un. Let's not see it happen again afore some'un applies it ta you."

Wringer sauntered off to speak to the miners Mellia and Laikan had gathered after giving an almost nonchalant wave, and Gittem trailed behind him like an uneasy cub. Farflit felt a cold ball he hadn't known existed till that moment roll over in his belly at the weasel's final statement. But, really, he wasn't surprised. Those words were quite familiar. Even if the beasts who wanted to voice them were too cowardly or tight-lipped to say them.

Farflit followed behind Wringer shortly afterwards, not looking back at where Shaal and the adders were soon to be buried.

There wasn't going to be a massacre again.

Crisis averted.

* * *

_A.N.: I can already see the looks on all your faces. If you have somethin' to say about my tactics, then say it. I know most of them are goin' to be whines about how it could've been done differently— an' you're right. I could've gotten two beasts killed instead of one. That would've been a great accomplishment. Don't talk about changin' things when you weren't there._

_You didn't help train Shaal. An' you didn't end him._

_Read an' review, preferably with some common sense. An' if you're missin' that, then we're not missin' you._

(A.N: Farflit is one pleasant fellow, isn't he? It's no wonder he's such a heart-winner on the "Favorite "vermin" character" profile page poll… And do not worry; this foray into adder-land isn't without reason. There are sneaky, sneaky little plot hints hiding here and there.)


	7. Chapter 6

"…_an' what did you get that 'un for?" _

_Once again, another finger poked in the air at one of the various tattoos that rolled across the other beast's shoulders and face. The excess tattoos didn't interfere with clan markings; they were allowed as spoils of war and declarations of victory._

"_Fought 'un of Tabliz's main warriors, Sunstreak, in close combat," the interrogated warrior said. "I won."_

_The young pesterer still refused to leave._

"_You wouldn't have gotten the tattoo if you wouldn't have bleedin' won," he said, voice dripping with unripe youth. "I heard about that. Wasn't much left of him after that, haha! But you know…" There was a pensive pause. "I swear I saw him hangin' around here 'o the tribe meetin's before."_

"_He never missed a meetin', an' he was an old friend 'o somethin' of Sarck's; I'm not surprised. It is— was— hard ta miss that set of glarin' markin's on top of havin' the Tabliz stripes on 'im. Did Zenrisk point him out ta you 'o somethin' when he dragged you along?"_

"_What? Ah, no, dad din't point him out. He was too busy chewin' out another chief over somethin'. I swear, they never muckin' stop." The young one rolled his eyes. Obviously, no maturity or insight had made it into his head from the clan meeting; the expanse of years ahead blinded him to the importance of the post of leader he would eventually take. "But I saw him enough times ta figure thin's out, anyway. Actually, I saw YOU around him a lot of the time. Did you know him?"_

_There was a pause, and a dagger was quietly rolled over between calloused fingers. The warrior's childish audience finally paused._

"…_yes," came the flat answer. "I knew Sunstreak. He could hold a whole Hellgates of a lot of ale, an' he had a sharp tongue an' level head, for bein' 'un of Tabliz's. If there was merrymakin' 'o sparrin', he was there. I en't heard somebeast else laugh like him, either, before 'o since— the damn ferret sounded like he could call a bird, with all his high-pitched chitterin' when he found somethin' funny. It took a bit ta get him ta laugh, but he would, if you tried enough. 'O he drank enough. He was around here pretty often visitin' Sarck an' Slipgale before Tabliz finished the tribe split."_

_Of course, the chieftain brat spoke up._

"_What happened? I mean, he ended up with a blade in his throat, an' you got another warrior's mark. Anscom said you two almost cleaned out that part of the battlefield afore your duelin' ended; that doesn't sound much like a forced battle between friends."_

_The dagger tilted as its holder shrugged._

"_It was a fight an' we ended up cornerin' each other. It's not like we could back out 'o anythin', seein' what that jrakat Tabliz Rath had done, so we went for it. There was 'un way ta get out of there. An' I wasn't dyin' for Sunstreak."_

"_Fair enough. It still wasn't too much of a loss anyways."_

_There was no reply as the dagger was quietly turned over again, and its very edge glowed white in the firelight reflecting off of it. The flippant tone of the chief's son suddenly had the same clueless ability to burn others as the fire did._

"_But speakin' of fightin'," he chimed up again, "Dipper, while we're on the topic, will you train m—"_

"_No. That's what your blasted parents an' Sarck are for; I'm muckin' busy." _

"_What? But all you're doin' is cleanin' your dagger. You're alone—"_

"_Go home, Rangar."_

_The under-grown stoat opposite Dipper grinned, gesturing around the whole camp as sparks drifted up from the fire._

"_I AM home."_

* * *

They had only been on the trail since morning, and Dipper's feet were far from tired, but he was already wandering when they would return home.

_I'm far from havin' any soppy homesickness for the tribe camp,_ Dipper thought, stepping over a branch and slinging his rations sack over his shoulder. Up ahead, Anscom took the lead, with Rangar trailing close behind him. Slipgale stuck behind Dipper. He could hear her soft footsteps treading over the ground behind him.

The ferret had been reserved and quiet since they had left that early morning, but Dipper felt Slipgale was filled with more of the reservation that spoke of preparing for a long, long haul instead of any homesickness. The travel up north to where the Taggerung lay was no short walk an' skip back, and then they actually had to _find_ the tripe-flaying beast— and with little help from Atiya and Taike's prophecies.

Dipper wanted to roll his eyes or snort at the thought of the seers and their mucking predictions. _Of course,_ he thought, _they can give a perfect description of what the blinking weather conditions will be when we meet the Taggerung, but it'd bugger them half to death to actually have to say when we're goin' ta meet the Taggerung. Vulpez forbid Fate let them know something more useful besides just the conditions of the meeting…_

Dipper wasn't wondering when they would come home out of any eagerness to be back. He was more concerned with trying to picture the beast who would be returning alongside them and baring the chosen tattoos across their face.

_Of course, Zenrisk will probably be thinkin' of the same thing the whole time we're gone,_ Dipper thought. _Hellgates knows what he expects the Taggerung to be._

The weasel rested his paw on his dagger hilt. Well, whatever the blagguts Zenrisk imagined, it didn't matter. Presuming they all got back alive, he'd get to see his Taggerung, alright, whether they were what he'd imagined them as or not.

Dipper's mind drifted off to the dark belly of the seers' lodge as he remembered the prophecy that had set them off on their quest…

* * *

To say Dipper didn't like the seers' lodge was an understatement.

Maybe it was because the whole place was dark and unlit and filled with squirming, unnatural shadows. Maybe it was because the air in the lodge was clogged with suffocating, sticky incense that shoved itself right up your damn nose, but yet was mucking unrecognizable. Maybe it was because the whole place was cluttered with bones an' Hellgates knew what else Atiya and Taike had stuck a string and needle through.

Dipper's whole training screamed at him for walking straight into such a place and letting Sarck close the curtains behind him. There were too many little distractions, too many things that dulled his senses and reeked of an ambush, even though the only mercy everybeast would have to put themselves at was Taike's— an' he rarely wielded a dagger.

Dipper sat down, immediately being greeted by a smile filled with more teeth than Anscom had ways to piss him off. Taike spread his paws in greeting with his fangs gleaming in the dark. Atiya sat perched in a lump of shawls further behind him, stroking a few runes.

"Looks like every'un's here," Taike cooed. "This will be fun!"

_...or maybe,_ Dipper thought, watching Taike's eternal cheerful face, _I don't like the seers' lodge because of the seer sittin' in it._

"Every'un here, then? Good," another voice in the dark spoke up. "We kin start."

It took Dipper a moment, but after he squinted his eyes and adjusted to the dim light, he could see the silver-shot fur and cross-legged figure of Zenrisk Rath. The tribe leader had sat himself right in front of the small incense fire like he owned the damn place— and it was a sign that he did… as well as the fact that his nose was dulled enough by age that the muckin' incense fumes didn't bother him. How Rangar was managing to perch by his father so close to the scent-sodden fire was a mystery to Dipper.

"Lovely," Taike sang out again, the fox pressing his paws together. The grin never left his face. "So are these the beasts that are goin' ta go after the Taggerung?"

Rangar tensed up at Taike's words, his shoulders stiffening and bending the lines of his tattoos. Dipper could feel his fur prickling at the mere promise of finding the fraggin' _Taggerung_, and Anscom leaned forward, staring intently at Taike through the cloak of the dark.

The gathering expectation was shattered as Atiya cleared her throat. The aged vixen's milky eyes stared blankly ahead, glazed and unseeing. They looked like pallid dead fish eyes in the murk, Dipper thought. Atiya saw just about as goddamn much as a dead fish did.

"Taike, tell them the prophecy first," Atiya said. The snap of command she'd held towards her apprentice and grandson had turned into a dried up, broken intonation. She knew it wouldn't get her anywhere. Dipper almost wanted to snort at the arrogant tilt-up of her head. Taike was the same as Anscom; if he didn't want to tell you somethin', you bloody weren't goin' to hear it.

"He kin start in a moment, Atiya," Zenrisk said, and this time, Dipper actually heard a tone of command that meant something. Next to him, the weasel felt Sarck stirring. All of the warriors automatically straightened up an extra increment. Atiya sat there as the broken, grumpy piece of slagged fur she was.

Taike continued to smile his pike's smile.

Dipper was certain Taike would be smiling 'til the day the twisted little seer finally kicked the bucket.

"As you all might've just heard from Taike an' Atiya," Zenrisk said, looking to his warriors as he put a certain amount of mocking emphasis on Atiya's name, Taike cheerfully nodding at his words, "we now have some new… information on the Taggerung. He'll fill you in a moment 'o two. But I'm goin' ta make 'un thing clear ta all of you," Zenrisk said. He turned his hardened stare on all of them, including Rangar. Dipper felt the commanding glare pass over him like an archer with a drawn bow had found something else to snipe. "You are not ta breathe a _word_ of this ta a single beast outside this lodge. Clear?"

Rangar mutely nodded his head, not having a smart response for his father for once. Dipper reckoned his survival instinct was speaking up. All of the other warriors gave their silent consent to the threat, and Dipper swore he heard Slipgale murmuring something in agreement under her breath. Atiya's worthless eyelids fluttered. There was only going to be a single livin' beast outside of those gathered now to know about the damn prophecy, Dipper thought, and it was going to be Lady Brielle. Anyone else would be snuffed and bleedin' dead.

The seasons hadn't made Zenrisk and his mate any less of ruthless warriors when necessary, even if they'd made Atiya less of a seer.

"Sarck, go," Zenrisk said, noting everybeast's agreement. The ferret silently rose to his feet and headed for the door. Dipper felt a soft waft of air from the curtains opening, and a brief blade of sun sliced through the darkness. It disappeared as the other warrior slipped out into the light, ready to stand guard outside the lodge in case any'un tried to interrupt.

Slipgale pursed her lips in the dark and said nothing.

Sarck may have overwritten most of his old tattoos and inked a new future into his skin when he'd left Tabliz's tribe for the eastern Raths, and then strengthened that new future link with seasons of loyalty and battles fought instead of just relying on a fragile wedding bond to tie him close to the tribe, but you couldn't redraw your past alliances. Sarck's loyalty didn't prevent Zenrisk from keeping his guard outside of little discussions and prophecies.

It was surprising that he or Slipgale hadn't whined about it yet, Dipper thought, but then again, they knew better. You didn't mucking complain about trust that you had— it was a good way to lose it, and it damn well wouldn't be comin' back. You had to treat trust the same as a skittish, abused brat, and Dipper wouldn't believe any differently.

After Sarck had left to take guard, and Zenrisk was confident there was no one hanging around outside and everyone was situated, the stoat turned his head towards Atiya and Taike. The fox seer smiled in anticipation— or maybe just because he was a bonking loony, Dipper thought. The weasel could feel his shoulders stiffening as Taike got ready to speak.

"Tell them the prophecy," Zenrisk said.

Taike's smile was the same one Anscom had given after shattering a shrew's arm up to the elbow in a fight.

"Well, it wasn't a whole new prophecy," Taike said, speaking with the peppy cheer that made Dipper's fur bristle unpleasantly, "but it _is _part of the old one. It's like a family reunitin'!"

Dipper was half-tempted to break his silence and tell Taike to get on with it before Rangar could say so, but his words died in his throat as a glazed, near-hypnotized expression came over Taike's eyes. The fox's shoulders slumped slightly, and the ex-Seer next to him instinctively turned her head as Taike began to recite the prophecy.

"_Ta find the wayward Halfling Taggerung_

_You must venture from tribe an' home,_" Taike said, taking up a singsong voice in the warped intonation of a cub, a sliver of a toothy smile still on his face,

"_Lure them from their hiding place,_

_Though the dangers don't come alone._

_Walk not on the flattened plains_

_Climb not the craggy mountains high_

_But wade 'neath moss flower's shade_

_An' Fate will not give you a lie._

_Find the land carved by red stone_

_The sky torn by lightning bleak_

_For there the broken warrior stirs_

_Amongst all you wished ta seek."_

The silence within the lodge after Taike had finished speaking rivaled that of death. From where he was sitting, Dipper felt his entrails were knotting themselves up like so many squirming eels. He thought everybeast in the lodge could've heard his rapidly beating heart if they themselves weren't muckin' frozen in place. The only ones untouched were the two Fatewinders and Zenrisk, who had received Taike's prophecy before.

When Atiya felt she had let them all stew enough in their thoughts and her retch-worthy incense, she spoke up. The fox's bone-decorated shawl gave a soft rattle as she turned her head.

"Before I start explainin' anythin', I assume the rest of you remember the original prophecy?"

"Yes," Rangar said. Dipper could see the edges of his dim silhouette in the dark. If it wasn't for the slight movements that showed he was speaking, Dipper wouldn't have known who was Rangar and who was Zenrisk. "_Where water and forest bind the land, far from the wandering tribes' reach, fate extends its guiding paw, to mend a promise breached…_"

Rangar spoke the prophecy like was a seesawing nursery rhyme or familiar lecture. Knowing Zenrisk and Lady Brielle, Dipper thought, that was probably just what it had been to him for the past scumsucking ten seasons.

"Good; you've come prepared," Atiya said dryly. If she hadn't been blind, she would have been giving them all the same scrutinizing glare of a crotchety old crone. Dipper swore she was judging all of them. Old hag. "But it would be better ta give every'un here a reminder, so I don't have to repeat myself 'o explain any further than I need ta do so— because I don't intend ta."

"Do you want me ta repeat the prophecy, Grandma?" Taike said sweetly. Atiya stiffened at the final word.

"…yes, Taike," she said finally, forcing most of her tension away. "Repeat it."

Without changing the frozen smile on his face, Taike repeated the old prophesy in the same singsong voice he had the newer one. Dipper's fractured version of the prediction was filled in again with the reminder. He had memorized most of the prophecy due to Rangar reciting pieces of it constantly over the seasons, but he had never been good at keeping track of blasted seer-sayings.

Yet the main idea of the damn thing was still the same, Dipper thought, hearing Taike's voice crawl through the stagnant air. The Taggerung was far from the tribe's grounds, and they would be found in the middle of a fight and storm. That was one Hellgates of an introduction— but it _was_ the bleedin' Taggerung they were talking about.

"And?" Zenrisk said, folding his arms over his chest after Taike had finished. _Get on with it._ Atiya's filmy eyes lowered towards the ground at the sound of impatience in his voice.

"After some consideration, and Taike consulting the Fates a few more times, I have the general meaning of the prophecy. Some things are not set in stone, Zenrisk— I warn you of that— so you and your warriors will have to be enterprisin', an' not follow the prophecy ta the letter like dull kits," Atiya said. "But now is the time ta seek out the Taggerung."

Rangar drew in a sharp breath as Atiya gestured to Taike's shoulder. The vixen made her gesture sharp enough to avoid touching her grandson.

"From the lines speakin' of metal clashin' an' lightnin', I can tell you that the Taggerung will be found in a storm 'o fight. I— Taike has not foreseen any tragedies—"

"For you all, anyway," Taike sang.

"—but be careful ta not let it be your blood spilt when you find the Taggerung," Atiya continued. "Fate does not tell of all deaths. Four of you shall leave; make sure five return. As for where the Taggerung is…"

As Atiya trailed off, Taike's face slowly warped into another smile that made disgust crawl up Dipper's spine. _Snakespit._ That didn't mean anything good, Dipper thought, tensing up as Zenrisk did the same. The Juska leader's fur bristled at the odd stretch to Taike's smile.

"Well? Where are they?" he barked.

If the seer would have had the capability for it, Dipper swore Taike would have giggled. The fox neatly placed his paws over his knees in a picture of pristine good behavior.

"You must go north ta a place made of lots of red stone," Taike said. Another edge of his fangs showed as he watched Slipgale, Rangar, Zenrisk, Anscom, and Dipper slowly come to the right conclusion.

A place made of lots of red stone… go beneath moss flower's shade to find it… go beneath mossflower's shade… _Mossflower…_

Dipper's mouth went dry. _No._

"No. Fraggin' _no_. You can't tell me they come from Redwall again," Zenrisk rasped out. He was staring in disbelief at Atiya and Taike, and Atiya looked up sharply at his words.

"I didn't—"

"They might," Taike said cheerfully, barging on without her. "It's not as if the Raths haven't had a Taggerung from there before." He fearlessly stared down Zenrisk as the look on the stoat's face began to turn murderous. Rangar shifted with discomfort.

"_Might?_"

"Taike, stop," Atiya warned, her brittle and callused fingers curling into fists as the tone in Zenrisk's voice unsettled her, but Taike just kept goddamn going.

"It might end as well as did last time, too! We'll all be happy! Unless Tabliz gets them," Taike said, leaning forward with a hideous flat smile that held no happiness as Zenrisk slowly began to sink his claws into his own knees, "but we _were_ a family tribe once, weren't we? The Raths will still be happy."

"Taike—"

"Are they 'o are they not goin' ta come from Redwall?" Zenrisk growled, seasons of impatience and tortured expectation leaking out into his voice. But the fox seer refused to stop playin' with fire, Dipper thought, his scruff's fur on end as he practically heard the snapping of patience strings inside Zenrisk.

"Maybe," Taike said, unfazed. "Redwall was made of sandstone the last time the Raths checked, right?" Taike tilted his head at Zenrisk with poise disturbingly similar to Rangar's mannerisms as a cub, still ever smiling. "An' I kin still see the prophecy right now— it's not like I'm _blind_."

Atiya said nothing from beneath her drooping shawl.

Zenrisk began to slowly rise as the younger Fatewinder gazed up at the chieftain with less fear than his own son would look at him with, and Dipper could smell the oncoming pain in the air. The weasel struggled to decide what to do.

Should he just sit and stinkin' watch this if something happened? Say nothing? Taike was their only seer, and he shouldn't be hurt… even if it would mean scumsucking nothing, no matter how badly Zenrisk beat Taike for his toying with everybeast's destiny and dreams like it meant nothing.

And there was the very reason Dipper was more disgusted by Taike Fatewinder's existence than absolutely anything Anscom could ever do: he _couldn't_ be hurt. Taike felt no pain, and he had no fear of death. Not even the real threat of it from Zenrisk or Vulpez himself could inspire it within him. He was goddamn untouchable.

Sunstreak hadn't been afraid of death, Dipper thought, remembering the other warrior. Sunstreak had fought him until his chest was coated with slick lines of blood and Dipper had felt his own heart beating against his ribcage and screaming at all the injuries he had, and then, Sunstreak had finally died with a dagger in his throat. The ferret had only had regret in his eyes for not killing Dipper first or takin' him with him. There had been no fear.

But Sunstreak had been brave. Sunstreak had been damned _fierce,_ Dipper thought, in everything he did, and had known how to laugh, and been hundreds of things Taike would never goddamn be in a hundred seasons of his pathetic muckin' existence.

Sunstreak had been a warrior… and a friend.

Taike was a Fates-damned freak.

"Dad—" Rangar said nervously, trying to reach for Zenrisk's arm as the stoat moved to rise to his feet. Zenrisk jerked his arm away from Rangar's paw and gave him a withering look in the dark that almost made the younger Juska shrink away.

"Off, Rangar," he growled. Atiya stiffened and sat up straighter as she sensed Zenrisk standing and realized what was happening.

"Milord, the Taggerung is not at Redwall," she said swiftly, raising her aged paws as if she could will Zenrisk down by force. The chieftain moved his glare from the hideously grinning Taike and turned to Atiya.

"Why didn't you say so before?" he growled. Zenrisk was the verge of beating some sense into Taike's skull, whether it got through or not, and Atiya could smell the phantom blood in the air. Why the Hellgates she was bothering to step in for Taike now was a bilgesnorting mystery, Dipper thought.

"It— was a possibility, Zenrisk," Atiya said, moving to pacify him. Rangar and Slipgale uneasily kept their seats. "But judging from other hints an' the air of the prophecy, I don't believe it is. There is an emphasis on goin' north in this foretellin', despite the travelin' through Mossflower, an' Redwall isn't _that _far off. I also have my own idea of where it could be speakin' of…"

"Then speak while you've got a tongue ta do so, fox," Zenrisk said, voice low. Atiya took it as a cue to carry on. Taike kept on smiling disconnectedly, as if he was seeing something much happier than his grandmother being threatened with muteness.

…or, seein' the bloody fakeness of that smile, maybe not, Dipper thought.

"When I was but a young seer who left the tribe ta travel an' see the land, I wound my way north," Atiya said. "I met an' stayed with a few scattered Juska up there who had left their tribes for one reason 'o another, an' fled far off. Their story was… fascinatin', but it has no place in this conversation now. At any rate, the land around there was marked by two things: a river that twined around it, an' large amount of sandstone quarries."

"_Red_ sandstone?" Zenrisk said, leaning forward again. Dipper's fur along his back prickled in anticipation.

"Redder than a robin breast's blood," Atiya promised. Anscom drew in a quiet breath. Slipgale still remained as quiet as a grave.

"So that's where they are, then," Zenrisk said quietly. Dipper didn't think the chieftain trusted his voice enough to raise it without it coming out hoarse.

"When are we goin' ta go get them?" Rangar said, breaking the silence. Barely chained eagerness in his voice lunged at the end of its leash. Rangar was the only one who could— or dared— speak freely around his father when he was in a state like this. Dipper, Slipgale, Anscom, an' Atiya were left to hold their tongues and suffocate in silence… and common sense.

"Tomorrow," Zenrisk said, decisiveness ringing in every word. He got to his feet, his cloak slithering up after him, and this time, everybeast rose with him. "We prepare today. Atiya, we're returnin' later, an' you'll tell us of everythin' you remember about the sandstone quarries an' lands up there. Taike, look for more prophecies, in case Fate changes its mind again. Dipper, Rangar, Slipgale, an' Anscom, get ready ta leave."

"Aye!" Every warrior intoned in unison. Excited friction ran between all of them as they shuffled out the door of the lodge, leaving the suffocating incense and the two jilted seers behind.

Tinges of adrenaline and nervous claws squeezed Dipper's heart as he moved out into the light again, furiously blinking his eyes. They didn't let up as Rangar tried to chatter furiously with his father and Anscom the instant he got out, and Slipgale and Sarck briefly pulled each other aside for a quick conversation.

The Taggerung wasn't just a stinkin' legend anymore they had to repeat to themselves every damned day in hopes they would appear, Dipper thought. It was an actual, tangible _thing. _An' it could be grabbed and taken.

"Oi, Dipper!" Rangar said, falling back to speak with the weasel as Zenrisk and Anscom began to debate about plans. Dipper turned to look down at him. Funnily enough, he didn't have to crane his head as far down to meet the younger stoat's eyes as he had before. Well, damn. When had that happened? "What are you takin' on the trip?"

Dipper drew his dagger and turned it to show the curved, sharpened edge up. Rangar grinned, tapping his own dagger sheath.

"Heh, I thought so. It's about all you need ta survive, anyway."

"Throw in some rations, an' for me, it's everythin'," Dipper said, sheathing his weapon. Rangar looked mildly amused before pouncing on Dipper, keeping the other warrior from leaving the conversation.

"So… what species do you think the Taggerung is goin' ta be?"

Dipper gave it a false moment of thought before cracking one of his knuckles. "Weasel. Obviously."

Rangar groaned, holding his paw to his forehead as the band of Juska headed back into the center of the camp. The hubbub of the tribe's domestic life began to flood the background noise with chattering and spat swears. "Oh, c'mon, Dipper. Really? Personally, I'd be bettin' on fox, but…"

"What, because of Ruggan Bol?" Dipper shot back. "Nice try, stoat, but it en't goin' ta be any sonuvawhore fox— not if _I _can help it."

"But there's the beauty of it," Rangar said, snickering, "you kin't."

"Watch me."

The argument over the Taggerung's species, lasted the next hour, even through the scattered farewells Rangar gave to random beasts who knew him in one way or another and approached to wish him luck on his journey— though they weren't sure of where he was going. Dipper suspected all of them had known what had transpired in the seer's lodge, even if they didn't know the exact wording.

But it didn't matter. Rangar was the chieftain's son and the favorite progeny of the eastern Rath tribe; he was regarded fondly in one way or another. If anything, all of the interruptions Dipper and Rangar faced in their debate just stretched the blasted thing out an extra half hour, seeing Rangar had to break away constantly to smile and shake tattooed paws and thank vermin of all different species for their well-wishes.

It also helped to hide the fact that Dipper no longer had anyone close to say goodbye to.

* * *

_A. N: Well, that's that. I'm glad ta be out of that goddamn seer lodge an' on the road. The Taggerung awaits, an' Taike an' Atiya kin rot in a hole, for all I care. Especially Taike. You all might think I'm exaggeratin' by sayin' thin's like that about them, but trust me, you'd be wishin' the same thin' on the fox if you knew 'im. You don't understand how he truly is 'til you've met him in the flesh. There's somethin'… pointlessly and broken an' *off* about that 'un. He's like somethin' that's livin' in a fox's skin, but it has no goddamn idea how fox acts 'o feels._

_I might've said Anscom is fond of 'im afore, but ta be honest, that's pushin' the definition of 'fond.' He looks ready ta stab somethin' an' make a run for it after he's stuck with Taike for more than a short time an' that seer starts talkin' ta him. Poor bastard; it almost makes me want ta rescue him._

…_but speakin' of rescuin', if you tell Anscom I said that, you're goin' ta be needin' some of your own. Clear? Good._

_It took us a little bit ta get started on the journey, even though I think none of us slept more than a wink 'o two… Anscom was like a scumsuckin' owl, just sharpenin' his knife at the fireside in the middle of the stinkin' night an' starin' out inta the trees. He didn't turn in 'til around the darkest part of the night, either. I should know. I was sittin' right next ta him the whole time. _

_Vulpez knows what Sarck an' Slipgale were up ta, an' if it wasn't sleepin', I don't want ta know (when Slipgale was a little late meetin' up with us this mornin', an' said she had ta give Sarck his farewell, Rangar said "Yeah, an' we know the kind of farewell she was givin' means she's goin' ta be needin' a midwife in half a season 'o so." He wasn't fast enough to dodge gettin' elbowed. The stoat still needs ta work on his stinkin' whisperin'.)_

_Rangar, as you might have been judgin' from above, was doin' quite well. If he was tired, then I din't see it. He's got the same kind of energy an' obsession towards findin' the Taggerung as Zenrisk. If he din't get any sleep, then he's capable of just existin' off of that._

_I would've ended this muck-lickin' blabberin' some time ago, but Saraa insisted that I keep talkin' ta all of you ta make up for the late update 'o somethin'. I'd say I can damn well stop now. I have a long journey ta go. Thanks for all reviews an' whatever-the-Hellgates!_


	8. Chapter 7

"_Mom, why're we goin' in the big buildin'? I don't— I don't think it's a good idea; 'cause the woodlanders livin' in it are goin' ta be mad—"_

_His mother gave something between a sob and a laugh as they moved into the vast expanse of the courtyard. Grey walls of stone swallowed up the outside world._

"_Oh, Ash, honey, it doen't belong to the woodlanders. Not anymore." She shakily stroked his head. "We're… we're goin' ta live here now."_

"_What?"_

"_That's right, Ashclaw. Now we have a home. Your, an' your father, an' Cinderfang an' I are all goin' ta get a room for ourselves, an' it's goin' ta be nice an' warm, an' we're all goin' ta stay together. How does that sound? An' you're goin' ta go get ta visit Vermund an' his family when you want ta play, an' I'm goin' ta find Cinderfang a soft blanket ta wrap her up in so she doen't have ta be cold, an' we're all… we're all goin' ta do just fine."_

"_So you mean I get ta— mom, there's somethin' on the wall."_

"_Come on, Ash, we have ta get inside. Reina's orders. Your father should be any time soon."_

"_Mom, there's blood on the wall—"_

"_Ashclaw, I told you ta keep movin', didn't I? We have ta get inside with every'un else. Just… don't look at it._

"…_mom, did some'un live here afore? It's a big, big house, an' I don't think 'ey'd make it so fancy if there was only a beast 'o livin' in it."_

"_It's an abbey, Ashclaw. WAS an abbey. Now it's our new home." She squeezed his paw tightly and continued to tow him through the courtyard, a tiny bundled Cinderfang nestled against her chest. "Do you understand, Ashclaw? We're not goin' ta have ta move anymore. Your father doen't have ta go wadin' out inta the ice every day. This is ours, an' no 'un is goin' ta take it from us."_

"_But what about the beasts who lived here afore? 'Less 'ey're dead, 'ey're goin' ta want it back. But if they're not, I guess we get ta keep it… Mom, are you okay? I— I'm sorry, m-mom, I'm sorry; I din't mean ta make you cry—"_

_The taller pine marten laughed, tears still streaming down her face in the cold, and bent and embraced her fretting son. His face was pressed into her fluffy fur._

"_You didn't make me cry, Ash. Don't worry about it. Your mom is just happy you an' Cinder have a home ta stay in, an' a roof ta grow up under." _

_She stroked the back of his head, patting down his fur, and her curved claws gently came forward to cup his face and tilt his muzzle up. One pair of mismatched eyes looked into another._

"_Just promise me that you'll remember 'un thin', Ashclaw. The walls around us, the brick keepin' us from the winds, all of this new home— none of it would be ours without Lord Kevern. Without him, we would have nothin'. He's the only reason we didn't freeze, an' he's the only reason we have a home. Never forget that. An' always, always thank him."_

_Cinderfang wriggled in their mother's arms, giving a quiet whine before blinking her wide eyes. She stared in surprise at seeing her sibling's face so close before reaching out tiny paws and tugging at his ears. Ashclaw took her fragile fingers in his own and squeezed them, trying to ignore the brimming tears of happiness in his mother's eyes and cascading down her face._

"_I promise, mom."_

* * *

Everybeast claimed that mid-spring was approaching Greyspire, but if it was, it was coming at the sluggish, spiteful pace of a beast with wounded pride. Unmelted snow still coated the ground and soaked into the edges of habits, leaving water to drip around the halls and doors of the abbey, and the wind still nipped with more vigor than necessary, bringing the scent of ice instead of sun. Nevertheless, Greyspire stirred like a sleepy wolverine poked out of a long nap, and Lord Kevern and Reina presided over a whole new chain of activities and chores that came with the seasonal change.

Almost a week and a half had passed since Vermund had broken the news to Ashclaw about the dungeon job and Cinderfang had begun to give them dirty looks for ignoring each other.

Ashclaw was convinced she would keep it up for next whole week until she hit the stage of screeching at them to make up.

But really, he thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell of oil as he finished dipping another torch, Cinderfang needed to quiet down for once. Vermund hadn't expected a different reaction from him over taking that job— and for _good _reason— and the ermine wasn't trying to make any half-hearted excuses for what he'd done. Why would _he_ make any half-hearted apologies to Vermund, then?

Ashclaw tapped his sodden lump of rags and oil on a stick— or what others would claim was a 'torch'— against a nearby table, making sure it was firmly wrapped. He'd tested it before soaking it in the oil, but it didn't hurt to check again. The last thing he needed to happen was for the torch to start unraveling after it had been caught on fire, and then accidentally burn off the end of his tail like it was a demented candlewick when a piece of flamin' wrap fell off.

…not like that had ever happened, Ashclaw thought.

When his torch didn't spontaneously fall to pieces after being tested, Ashclaw moved to the other side of the small room to lay it with the others.

The torch making and maintenance room was a bleak, well-kept arrangement of tables and peels of cut cloth on the floor with high-set windows and the smell of wary competence and oil. It was the brightest room in the spring and summer, with light pouring through its high-up windows, and the darkest, coldest, most miserable little hole Ashclaw could ever imagine the winter. Frostooth was well aware of the fate-tempting he would be doing if he allowed fires to be lit near so much oil and dry cloth. As a result, the heat and light was minimal in the most frigid part of the season.

There was an irony in there somewhere, Ashclaw thought, adding his torch to the finished pile. These weren't the large torches or lanterns used to light up Greyspire's main halls, but the main patrol that would be heading out to prowl the abbey's borders in a few minutes would need them… and so would those who had jobs in the dungeon.

Ashclaw headed back to his torch-making table and threw himself down in the chair much harder than he needed to. He cursed when grabbed hold of the table edge to pull his chair in, jerking back at the bite of pain between his fingers. Ashclaw drew back his paw and spread it, only to see a swelling welt between his thumb and along the juncture of his fingers and palm.

Great, Ashclaw thought, prodding at the welt and wincing sourly. A cut and callous in one from working on torches an' repairing lanterns all day was just what he'd needed—and it was slicked with oil, too! The small amount of coppers he got for working hours like this was just merely a bonus; obviously, he had the _real_ reward right here. Ashclaw felt more enriched already.

"…Ashclaw, are you talking to yourself again?"

"No," Ashclaw grumbled, grabbing another bare polished stick from the corner of his table. He refused to look at the beast sitting at the other torch-making table next to him. The night patrol would need at least four more torches.

"I heard something about being 'enriched' over there."

"Frostooth's made you paranoid with all of his knuckle-rappin' an' breathin' down your neck," Ashclaw said, grabbing a coil of cloth. He began to tie it around the end of the stick. Since wood was scarce, Greyspire reused the holders for torches after they had burned down. Messing up a torch got you a backhand and a spew of questionable foreign swears from Frostooth, since the arctic fox apparently had eyes in the walls instead of just the back of his head. "I wasn't sayin' anythin'."

"Sure you weren't." The speckled rat sitting a table away from Ashclaw neatly tied off another torch. He poked at the off-colored snowball of tied cloth. "…you know, I'm still convinced he doesn't sleep."

"Kike, Frostooth doen't bloody _eat_," Ashclaw said. He began to carefully wrap up the end of the torch, making sure each line of cloth was level and pulled snug. As much as he hated his job… he hated the sharp-eyed Frostooth's chastising hits more. Damnit, but how that fox made his fur stand on end. He had yet to see Frostooth in the mess hall, but the vermin never showed signs of hunger. Cinderfang had enthusiastically suggested he was a frost spirit from Hellgates. Ashclaw agreed. "I'm not surprised he doen't sleep."

Kike shrugged, beginning on a new torch, but it didn't prevent him from nervously glancing at the door right after Ashclaw. As much as the slate-furred and black-spotted rat poked at the pine marten out of sheer boredom, both workers were united by sardonic jabs and a communal paranoia towards their employer. An' a lack of sleep thanks to their jobs, Ashclaw thought. That was another thing. Though seeing Kike's condition, he got plenty of sleep, whether he wanted to or not.

…an' speak of Vulpez, Ashclaw thought, turning around to remind Kike of their deadline. The marten shut his mouth when he saw Kike lying facedown on the table, fast asleep, nose almost buried in his oil bottle. The rat was lucky it was closed and he hadn't snorted any of it and started spluttering and hacking so badly his coworker was convinced he was going to die.

…not like that had ever happened, Ashclaw thought.

The pine marten set down his torch, delicately making sure it didn't unravel, and grabbed a stick he hadn't began working on. He threw it at Kike's chair and long sweeping tail.

"Oi, Kike! Hey!"

The rat blinked in surprise at the clatter of wood, shedding the sleep from his eyes. Kike straightened up, rubbing his face with his knuckles.

"Aw, damnit," he muttered, looking up to see Ashclaw perched in his chair, ready to toss something else if needed. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did, but just help me finish up this last round of torches, an' we'll both be done," Ashclaw said. He picked up his unfinished torch again, wincing as the material scraped against his fresh welts. _Almost done,_ he told himself. _Then you can go home an' get dinner with Cinderfang, an' maybe your paws aren't going to bleed this time._

Bloody welts on his paws or not, working himself ragged at fixing torches every day an' scouting was better than working himself ragged in the dungeon like his father had. Or how Vermund was fixing to do so.

Ashclaw jerked the next wrap of cloth as hard as he could, moving on to the second loop with gritted teeth. He mumbled a few hissed profanities under his breath as he did so. Kike wisely remained silent.

The two vermin finally finished their last torches, soaking them in oil before adding them to the stack intended for the night patrol. Had they been naïve apprentices, Frostooth would've peeked in multiple times or offered his own (painful) version of encouragement and critique, if not supervised the whole thing, but he trusted those beasts who had survived their third season under his watch to be competent. The two of the other three beasts on Ashclaw's and Kike's shift had called in too sick or injured to work, and the last one was havin' her cub. This left only the remaining vermin to clean up for the day an' keep racking up their tally of snipes at each other.

"Hey, Ashclaw," Kike said, getting out of his seat and preparing to gather up some of the torches needed for the patrol. "Would you mind dropping off some other torches for me? I've got the patrol ones covered, but I need some help."

"Sure," Ashclaw said, bending to adjust his leg wraps before he waded out into the crisp, cold air. "Where do you need me ta drop 'em off?"

_Please don't say the dungeons, an' please don't say the western quarters._

"Well, the dungeons are running low on torches, and they need some before evening. I would drop them off myself, but they're around the western parts."

_Damnit._

"And… you know." Kike coughed uncomfortably, fur fluffing up in minor embarrassment. "I don't want to repeat what happened last time."

"Don't worry," Ashclaw said, trying to get the begrudging sound out of his voice as his heartbeat ratcheted up at the mere thought of entering the dungeons— as well as where Vermund was stationed— "I've got it covered. My pleasure."

"Thanks," Kike said. A flash of guilt crossed Ashclaw's chest when he saw the rat determined not to squirm at the sardonic tone of his last quip. This wasn't Kike's fault; he hadn't meant it that way.

"Just be careful not ta go ta sleep on the way ta the gates, alright?" Ashclaw said, standing up. He gathered up a few torches. "You don't want ta drop them in the snow. Frostooth would have your hide."

"What? No, not our kind teacher," Kike said, picking up his own bundle of torches. Both vermin headed towards the door, nudging it open with their backs. Kike gave Ashclaw a nod as they headed in different directions. "See you tomorrow, Ashclaw."

"See you," Ashclaw called over his shoulder, heading down the relatively empty hall.

_If it were anybeast else askin' me to do this favor,_ Ashclaw thought, struggling to balance his torches, _I would've flat out denied them._ He didn't want to have another awkward silence face-to-face with Vermund, and definitely not in the stinking _dungeon,_ but in this case, he didn't have a choice. Maybe he wouldn't see Vermund when he made it down there.

Unfortunately, whenever his rat workmate asked him to carry torches to the dungeons or up to the very top of Greyspire, Ashclaw had to agree. Kike had an unusual condition: the rat was prone to randomly falling asleep at any given time, no matter what was happening.

Kike was a nareptsic, or nacoolept, or whatever-the-Hellgates that word written on Cinderfang's homework had been, Ashclaw thought. For the rat, this didn't bode well, especially when he was carrying things up or down steep stairs like those that led to the western quarter of the dungeon. The last time he had tried that, Kike had made it halfway down the steep stairs with his delivery before he fell asleep. The rat had split his head open from temple to temple and broken his arm. He had been skittish about approaching stairs ever since.

"_It… sounds stupid, Ashclaw, but whenever I get near the stairs, I can feel the stitches and the edge of the rock biting into my head again. I'm scared that one day I'm going to wake up on the stairs, except someone else who was nearby is going to have their head split open too, and it'll be my fault. You understand, right?"_

"Yes, sure I do," Ashclaw muttered under his breath, pushing open the door and crossing Greyspire's courtyard to get to the dungeon outside of the abbey, "an' you owe me, Kike. I swear, the day I ask him ta return the favors, he's goin' ta be runnin' his tail off all across the abbey… think I've ran at least five miles of torch deliveries for that rat…"

The pine marten continued his pointless grousing to himself both mentally and below his breath as he hauled his load of torches over towards the dungeon. Despite all of the stupid, meaningless grumbles towards Kike, Ashclaw's fur began to stand on end as he left Greyspire through a side gate. His eyes nervously flitted up towards the long squat building that sat astride the fortress, located only a walk away. It hung over the snow and held tight to the rocky hill it was tucked against in an ominous, low-lying cloud of dark rock and filth. Ashclaw had seen real hale storm clouds he'd found friendlier.

The snow crunched beneath the marten's feet as he approached the dungeon. His heart was whimpering and curling up on itself, protesting the visit to the damned building like it always did, but the fact that he was going to see Vermund marching around within its belowground passages didn't make Ashclaw feel any better.

_The one good thing about this is that Cinderfang isn't here, _Ashclaw thought.

He didn't even make it to the dungeon entrance before he heard the yelling.

At first, Ashclaw felt a sickening tug at his stomach, and for a terrifying moment he thought he was reliving old memories like some damaged war veteran. Then the yelling became louder, solidifying into something real, and a scramble of movement and sound hit its crescendo right at the dungeon door.

With a thud, the door slammed open, snow spraying all over the prison's dark walls, and a one-eyed mousemaid shot out across the white plain. There were vermin straight behind her, and even more swarming up the stairs, roaring at each other not to let her escape and to 'STOP HER, STOP HER!' They were swift, but fear made the mousemaid swifter, and she flew across the ice and snow like an arctic tern skipping over water, her ragged skirts and stolen guard jacket flapping in the wind behind her.

For a moment, she saw Ashclaw, looking at her from a distance and standing right in her path, and she immediately gave a hoarse oath and spun around to head in the other direction. But the pine marten didn't try to pursue her. He only remained in place with his armful of torches and stared as she took off and ran_._ And the only thing Ashclaw could think through his pulse skipping as he watched the mousemaid evade each guard on her heels— as more curses floated up the dungeon passageways, and someone began to violently berate Vermund and damn him to Hellgates— was _run, run, RUN._

* * *

Long after he had put Cinderfang to bed, and the sun had sunken beneath the rocky horizon with torches and lanterns being lit in its wake, Ashclaw made his way up to the abbey walltop. He rubbed his arms to strike up friction between his aching paws and fur to warm himself. White puffs of air blew out of his mouth in the freezing cold, and the icy rock tried to numb his feet through his wraps.

The pine marten tried to ignore everything by turning his face up to the sky, being careful not to lean his elbows on the frigid walltop stones. The sky was clear for once. There weren't any thick storm clouds that would signify Ashclaw freezing his tail off in the torch room when he had to get up early in the morning— well, not more than blinkin' usual, anyway— and the stars hung up in the dark like scattered ice crystals across somebeast's black traveling cloak.

Ashclaw kept up the slow rubbing of his arms and stargazing until he heard quiet footsteps behind him. His fur momentarily stood on end for a reason other than heat, but Ashclaw's nerves settled when he only saw a familiar ermine coming over from the walltop stairs— though it took him a minute to recognize them.

The pine marten took one last glance at the approaching vermin before he turned back to looking at the stars. He said nothing when Vermund joined him and gazed skywards.

"No clouds tonight," Vermund said, breaking the silence. He tilted his head to study one of the constellations scattered in the sea of stars. "Guess that means we're not goin' ta be freezin' tomorrow."

"You mean you're not," Ashclaw said. "You an' your damn four inches of fur. The rest of us need coats."

Vermund moved to give a shrug, but he winced heavily halfway through, sucking in his breath between clenched teeth in a quiet hiss. Ashclaw blinked in surprise at the odd movement before Vermund leaned forward, slowly stretching out and propping his paws against the walltop.

The ermine had been steadily losing more of his winter coat over the past few days, though his body didn't seem to have gotten the message that he was supposed to shed all over. Vermund looked like he'd been squished up to his ribcage in mud and then pulled out, leaving a sleek brown below his ribcage, and a fluffy expanse of white over everything above. Ashclaw still had to look at those bangles around his wrists to make sure that yes, Vermund was the same size under there.

But the bangles weren't the only thing squashing down his fur this time. Ashclaw had thought he was seeing Vermund wrong in the dark earlier when one shoulder seemed larger than the other. He hadn't. A long wrap of bandages twined around Vermund's chest and back, crushing down his fluffy fur and making him seem smaller. Something dark faintly stained the stretch of bandages around his back. The thick tufts of fur that had been there before were mysteriously gone.

"What happened?" Ashclaw managed to force out, still staring at the bandages. He'd known Vermund was goin' to get in trouble for what had happened earlier, but this—

"It's not as bad as it looks," Vermund said. He shrugged one shoulder again, managing to finish the action without wincing. "I got a few lashes for lettin' the mouse escape. One went a little deeper on accident."

One deep lash on accident or not, Ashclaw thought, there was no way in Hellgates that Vermund's fur had come off by accident. He stifled a bit of anger. "How many?"

"Ten. Oslo decided ta let me off light since I was wet behind the ears jobwise. He still wasn't that happy with me. They had ta cut off some of my fur ta see my actual back," Vermund said, noting Ashclaw's staring. "Guess I look a little bit puffy when I haven't shed. …don't give me that look, Ashclaw, it's really not that bad. You'd understand if you got in a few big fights 'o were lashed afore."

"I don't plan on bein' lashed," Ashclaw said. "_'O_ gettin' in any kind of big fight. That's more up your line. 'O the latter part was, anyway."

There was a pause as both mustelids returned their attention back up to the stars. The crisp breeze began to gnaw at their noses.

"…y'know, Ash, I'm still goin' ta be workin' in the dungeon after this," Vermund said gently. "It's not makin' me change my job."

Ashclaw had to bite his tongue to keep from saying that if this didn't make him change his mind, whatever he was going to see next would, and Vulpez help him if it didn't. It had been enough to break Ashclaw's father. The pine marten swallowed back the lump of confusion and memories in his throat.

"…you let 'er out on purpose, din't you?"

Vermund didn't bother to pretend that he didn't know who Ashclaw meant.

"No, I din't," he said. "She just slipped out while I wasn't payin' attention. Mice are sneaky like that."

"Well, 'ey usually en't that sneaky after 'ey've lost an eye," Ashclaw said. "Nobeast really is, unless 'ey're makin' an extra effort… 'o the guard is distracted." He gave a significant look to Vermund.

"I might've been a little distracted," Vermund said, keeping a purposefully nonchalant tone. He was slowly trailing his gaze from star to star again instead of looking at Ashclaw. "She did talk a lot about different thin's. Her travels, stories, her family left back home… I just ended up lettin' my guard slide a little." He paused. "They weren't able ta catch her. Oslo's still angry."

"I bet he is," Ashclaw said. He finally looked away from Vermund and up towards the sky. The temperature had plummeted further down since they had begun speaking, but it wasn't enough to force both of them inside yet. "…why?"

He wasn't questioning Vermund about Oslo's anger.

"We all might be loyal ta Lord Kevern," Vermund said, "but it doesn't mean we all agree about who 'o why somebeast be should be put in the dungeon, 'o if they're supposed ta be there at all— whether 'o not they're a blasted woodlander." Vermund squeezed the stone his paws were resting on, his fingers curling into fists. "Ash, I know how you feel about the dungeons because of what happened ta your father," he said, voice low. "An' I'm sorry about that, an' for takin' a job that reminds you of it. But you can't judge every'un who works in there based off what a few do. I'm just workin' here with what little choices I have. I'd… like ta keep you an' Cinder close, if I can."

Ashclaw tried to immediately get the right response out of his mouth, but everything seemed to crumple against each other in one big pile of scrap before he could speak. Damnit, this wasn't supposed to be happening, he thought. He'd lost two family members to that scumsucking dungeon already, and now it had a third.

But it was Vermund's decision to walk right into it. He wasn't some cub who didn't know what went on down there, Ashclaw thought, and he wasn't a poor marten who'd signed up for a post when the dungeon was new, expecting to find simple, clear-cut job to help his wife feed their two cubs. Vermund _knew_. It was his choice.

And it was Ashclaw's choice whether or not to turn his back on Vermund and prematurely cut his losses or to cling on tightly to a piece of his family as he had last time.

"...you know you're goin' ta get really tired of havin' ta walk around that buildin' in circles for hours, right?" Ashclaw said, looking at Vermund with apprehensive eyes.

Vermund seemed to quietly let out a breath Ashclaw hadn't known he was holding. The ermine relaxed a little more against the wall, or as much as he could with his lash-bitten back. "Eh, it will be the same as bein' a warrior, except with less fightin' an' losin' fingers. I wouldn't mind some boredom, ta be honest."

"I wish Cinderfang felt the same way," Ashclaw said, snorting. "Maybe then she'd want ta do her studies more… She's been snipin' at me all week for not talkin' ta you. I don't think I could've found a more polite, considerate siblin' than I have in the past few days."

Vermund laughed, white streams of air blowing from his mouth. "I've been gettin' a fair share of her nosin' around too, Ashclaw. She's not exactly a maiden ta shrink from confrontations. But I think we'll be alright in her graces after tomorrow."

"I 'ope so," Ashclaw said, beginning to head down the walltop back towards the staircase and the much warmer inside. Vermund walked with him, both of them keeping in stride together with the same natural pace they had always had. "If she keeps givin' me the death glare…"

Both vermin disappeared into the expanse of Greyspire, leaving the stars behind.

* * *

Much to Ashclaw's relief, Cinderfang stopped trying to glare him and Vermund into submission and apologies when the ermine sat down to eat with them the next morning like nothing had happened. Her eyes had widened momentarily when Vermund had slid into the seat next to Ashclaw— giving the fish on the marten's plate a look of disdain— and then started up a conversation about scouting schedules and Reina's apparent exhaustion over one matter or another.

In the course of one meal, the awkward little family was restored again, even if Ashclaw was convinced Cinderfang would sulk for all of the next week over never bein' told what had caused the mended rift in the first place. Vermund didn't tell Cinderfang he had taken a job in the dungeon— that would come later. She was more than aware of Ashclaw's feelings about that place.

_Add in the fight Vermund and I had, and she would put two and two together in no time,_ Ashclaw thought. Which he wouldn't mind— except for the fact that he was bone tired from the recent haul of work, and the last thing he wanted was to sit Cinder down and have a serious discussion with her about the boundaries she would have to follow.

Vermund could hold his tongue about his new job and what it meant for the two siblings for a few more days, Ashclaw decided. He hefted the bundle of torches in his arms, grimacing as the cool dungeon air stirred against his face. Why the Hellgates did this place go through so many lights again? Vulpez, you would have thought that when Lord Kevern ordered the dungeon to be built, he would've considered constructing the place aboveground instead of below it. Windows would have been able to give them more light, and Ashclaw wouldn't feel like he was walking about in the last un-exhaled breath of air in a corpse's mouth.

Some bile crept up the pine marten's throat at the last comparison. _Ergh, movin' away from that topic right now,_ Ashclaw thought, hastily picking up his speed and trying to get his torch deliveries over and done with. He turned down a musty, quiet passage, attempting to ignore the hollow echoing of his feet on the stone floor… and the haggard, drooping shapes of bodies and rags that slumped behind each iron-barred cell.

Most of them were woodlanders too broken and despondent to make a run for it, or beginning to head down that trail. They couldn't go runnin' to their hometowns and begin yapping about a vermin-run abbey that needed to be cleansed and overthrown from 'the thieving vermin filth' when they were behind bars. Neither could they continue with their life of scavenging and roving, doing nothing more than trying to survive on what wits they had. Ashclaw found it hard to see one type of beast from the other sometimes, and when the line between 'traveler' and 'self-righteous woodlander bigot' got really blurry…

An' then the marten gritted his teeth and marched off faster, because there was no way in Hellgates he was comparing himself to or feeling any understanding for Lord Kevern.

Occasionally, Ashclaw caught sight of a pair of sharp claws or lithe or thick-furred bodies behind the bars, grumbling about unfair fairness or soaking in the aftermath of their hangovers and disobedience. Woodlander visitors weren't the only ones who arrived at Greyspire and misbehaved, and Lord Kevern and Reina did not tolerate thievery, drunken brawls, 'o anything that would hurt the residents or young ones of Greyspire. Thanks to that, you could always find one sloppy vermin or two lounging around in a cell near the entrance of the dungeon, awaiting their release and walk of shame.

Those woodlanders and vermin who committed actual crimes or posed a danger to Greyspire were locked in the far back of the prison where no one but certain guards went. Nobeast but them wanted to go back there. Ashclaw's father hadn't.

"Got the torches yet? About time, marten," one of the lynx guards growled, seeing Ashclaw approach the main congregation point for shift changes. Even under the stifling influence of the dungeon walls, Ashclaw had to struggle not to roll his eyes at the way the skinny cat stuck out his chest and looked down his nose at him. The marten unloaded his armful of torches on one of the nearby tables, ignoring the impatient tapping of the guard's spear against the stone floor.

At this time of year, lynxes— much like the irritated Vermund— were in the process of shedding. Ashclaw had to glance at the guard's puffed out chest and wonder how much of it was fur instead of brawn. If he got any more self-importance, Ashclaw thought, he might actually convince himself he was in charge of something. Poor deluded bugger.

Ashclaw was turning away to leave, ignoring the disdainful look of control the wildcat had given him, when some high-pitched chatter reached his ears. He frowned at the half-familiar sound before he rounded the corner and saw a young marten maid talking to a guard rat.

"—an' so I din't know if he was still askin' for 'elp with jobs 'o not. Ivarr, could you talk ta 'im for me? Please? I kin't—"

"CINDERFANG!" Ashclaw barked, his fur bristling. His younger sister almost leapt a foot in the air at his echoing yell, and she and the rat whirled around to look at him. Ivarr looked ready to sink into the cell behind him as Ashclaw marched down the dungeon hall.

"Ashclaw!" Cinderfang said, eyes wide with surprise. Ashclaw could already see her trying to fix together a story in her head. "I din't know you were deliverin' torches here taday—"

"What are you doin' here?" Ashclaw said, cutting her off. At that moment, whatever story she had didn't matter, or the slightly shrinking Ivarr didn't matter either. Ashclaw's heart was too busy slamming itself against his ribs like a concussed bird against a window _because Cinderfang was in the dungeon._

Not in the dungeon entrance. Not in the corridors close to the entrance. Not even in the western quarter, closer to Vermund— but in _the middle of the eastern dungeon._

Cinderfang's eyes momentarily narrowed in annoyance at his words, but she was too busy trying to make excuses to stop and chew her brother out. "I was visitin' Ivarr. I needed ta ask him about somethin', an' every'un needs company once in a while, don't they, Ivarr?"

"Well—" Ivarr said, hesitating, but he didn't get any further before Ashclaw grabbed Cinderfang by the wrist and began to drag her out.

"Hey!" Cinderfang protested, stumbling as Ashclaw jerked her forward. She struggled to get her balance as he marched her down the hall, practically dragging her by the cells. "Ash, what are you doin'? Let _go _of me—"

"Up the stairs, _now,_" Ashclaw growled, only speaking up to his complaining sister when they had wound their way out of the dungeon's innards and made it to the exit. Cinderfang's next protest was jarred out of her mouth when she and Ashclaw swiftly began to climb up the steep stairs.

Cinderfang hadn't gone too deep into the dungeon, Ashclaw thought, his heart and disjointed worry thudding in his chest from far, far more than just running up stairs. He tightened his grip around her wrist to reassure himself she was still there, ignoring her screeching as they plowed right through the layer of snow and headed for inside Greyspire.

She probably hadn't seen much, if she'd seen anythin' at all, Ashclaw reassured himself; that miserable rat Ivarr had been there to distract her. But _damnit_, Ashclaw wanted to kick him down some stairs right now. It was his fault Cinderfang had gone down there to start with, the marten thought, fuming. And _Cinder_— when the Hellgates did Cinder ever think he'd given her permission to go to the dungeon?

For a moment, Ashclaw could smell the icy, rotting musk of the prison clouding his nose again, feeling the cold bars pressing against his outreaching arms, and the pine marten felt sick.

An instant later, he was dragged out of his reminiscence by Cinderfang's stomp and her curse as she shut their room door behind them. Cinderfang jerked her wrist out of his grip.

"What the _'ellgates, _Ash?!" she screeched. Her fur was fluffed up at wanton angles, and if she hadn't been enraged, she would have been curdling into the corner out of sheer embarrassment. "What were you _doin''_? We went straight through the courtyard! Breade an' his little group were laughin' at me, an' every'un was watchin' us— what's your _problem?_"

"What's MY problem?" Ashclaw said, laying a paw on his chest. He gestured at the closed door. "What's _your_ problem for goin' inta the dungeon? I told you ta stay out of there, Cinderfang! Why were you down there?"

"Like I TOLD you, I was sayin' hello ta Ivarr!" Cinderfang snapped back, but she had shrunken a little at the look of furious incredulity on her older brother's face. He had told her time and time again not to go into the dungeon, and she'd flat out ignored him. This was enough to warrant some anger on his part. "It wasn't like I was pokin' around every corner 'o askin' the guards out on dates 'o somethin'. Calm down, Ashclaw!"

"Yeah, well, you kin say all the 'hello's you want ta Ivarr _after _he gets off his shift," Ashclaw growled, already searching around their one-room quarters for Cinderfang's messenger bag. His stomach was still turning some flips from the thought of her being down there alone and unprotected— because Ivarr didn't count— an' the furthest away he could get her from the dungeon right now, the better, for his own sanity. Frostooth could yell at him for being tardy later.

Cinderfang rolled her eyes as she realized what Ashclaw was looking for. She walked over to the simple bed nearby, pulling her bag out from under it. "Right here, smart one. An' I've already finished my classes for the day. We got let out early. Why do you think Breade an' every'un else was out in the court yard?"

Ashclaw momentarily felt stupid as he looked at the bag dangling from Cinderfang's paw, but he recovered when he imagined Frostooth's glare on the back of his neck. Cinderfang could stay at home or go to the scholar's room; he had to finish his shift with Kike before he went out scouting— an' Frostooth wasn't goin' to be generous with any chastising if he popped in to check on them, and his worker was gone. _Tripe._

Cinderfang crossed her arms over her chest as she sat on the bed, watching Ashclaw scramble to get his thicker leg wraps and clothes together.

"What're you doin' now?"

"I have ta go scoutin' right after Frostooth lets me out of my shift," Ashclaw said, hopping on one leg as he tried to fit another pair of pants over those he was already wearing, as well as trying to tighten up the bandages on his paws with his teeth. He ignored the slightly sulky and scornful tone still in Cinderfang's voice. "Din't remember it up until this second, either— frostbite, where'd those gloves go?"

"'ey're buried under your bag," Cinderfang said, watching Ashclaw riffle through their small bureau. Some of the Icebloom residents had already been filling the abbey with furniture by the time Lord Kevern took it, and every drawer was taken advantage of. Cinderfang perked up, some of her irritation fading. "Does this mean you're not goin' ta be able ta eat lunch with me an' Vermund?"

"Yeah, sorry Cinder, don't think so," Ashclaw said, trying to force his tail through the slot for it in his pants.

"Great," Cinderfang muttered sourly. She paused, looking over her claws as they sat in her lap. "You know, Ashclaw, after I started talkin' with Ivarr, I had an idea. Tamkin needs some more 'elp in the kitchen— an' the shift was open— so I was thinkin' that if I skip 'un class 'o two a week, you wouldn't have ta take up my—"

"What? You're not missin' your lessons," Ashclaw said, halting in his attempts to get his other pants on. Cinderfang stared back stubbornly.

"I'm old enough ta pick out my own schedule. I kin choose how much work an' I how much learnin' I want ta balance thin's out."

"So you kin fall behind an' try ta skip classes more than you are now? It en't happenin'," Ashclaw said. He could feel his paws aching all over again from working for Frostooth for hours; Vulpez forbid it be Cinder in his position when she grew up. Reading could get her out of there. "You're not goin' anywhere; not the kitchens, an' especially not the dungeons."

"Oh _come on _Ashclaw," Cinderfang said, standing up. "I'm not goin' ta drop out of my lessons 'o anythin'; I'm just goin' ta carry some of the workload, an' I kin take care of myself now. I'm not little anymore, I kin go inta the dungeons without gettin' hurt. Lord Kevern wouldn't have it if it was dangerous ta every'un who stepped in it."

Ashclaw felt himself go numb at the defiant look on her face. The thought of her just traipsing around the dungeon like nothing was bad enough, but when she found out Vermund was down there, an' decided to go there and ignore her common sense—

"Your wonderful Lord Kevern also wants every'un ta learn how ta read, an' since you listen ta him so well, you should take his advice an' stay out of the dungeon," Ashclaw said. His voice came out a bit more sardonic than he had intended it to. Cinderfang glared at him.

"I listen ta _wonderful _Lord Kevern because he happens ta run this whole place," Cinderfang growled, picking up something in Ashclaw's tone he wasn't aware he'd had, "an' because he's good at it. What's your problem with Lord Kevern? He en't got a thin' wrong with him. …an' he's no coward," she said, tacking the last words on with such a deliberateness that Ashclaw's fur bristled.

"He's not that perfect, either," Ashclaw spat, leaning closer to Cinderfang and poking at the air between them, "an' his precious dungeons are proof. He couldn't have mucked that up harder than if he'd tried."

"He din't _muck up_," Cinderfang said, standing up and shoving her face up in Ashclaw's, "some'un else did! An' even if he _did_ make a mistake somehow, 'o sometime, at least he deals with straight off, an' doen't slink around the corners an' avoid it for weeks!"

Ashclaw's face burned at the sting, his pelt itching in humiliation, but he couldn't back off with Cinderfang right in his space. Hurt pride, worry, and exhaustion pushed him on.

"Well, you know what, Cinder?" he said, growling and leaning down to put his face into hers, "At least when _I_ make a mistake, I don't hurt any'un!"

"Yeah, no 'un but— oh, I don't know—" Cinderfang gave a mocking tilt of her head like she was sweetly considering something. "—yourself!"

"What?" Ashclaw spat. Cinderfang poked him in the chest, her claw jabbing his skin.

"You heard me right," she said. "You screwed up an' tried ta work for both of us, even when I kin take care of myself now, an' even when you _know _you don't have ta compensate for me if I'm workin' too, you still do it!"

"I kin carry the load I have right now just fine," Ashclaw shot back. He'd stopped trying to get ready to leave a long, long time ago. The missing gloves lay forgotten.

"I'm sure you kin," Cinderfang said, her ears beginning to pin back as she glared at Ashclaw, "an' that's just why you crawl in here every night an' flop out on the bed like you're dead, because you're doin' so _well_—"

"You're not workin', 'o goin' inta the damn dungeon, an' that's final!" Ashclaw snapped, grabbing her wrist and shoving it away from his chest. Cinderfang jerked her paw back to himself like he'd gotten her dirty just by touching her. "I kin work for us both just fine; you're goin' ta go learn—"

"YOU'RE NOT _DAD_, ASHCLAW!" Cinderfang screamed in his face, standing on her tiptoes. "AN' YOU'RE NEVER GOIN' TA BE, so stop _TRYIN'_!"

There was dead silence in the room after Cinderfang's scream had finished echoing. She was breathing harder, staring up at her frozen brother with something just a bit glassy in her eyes, and Ashclaw could only stare back.

He didn't expect her words to hurt so much until he actually felt them hit home.

Ashclaw was suddenly struggling just to get over the pain in his chest, and how bad the inward, throbbing burn was biting into him— hurting far, far worse than anything Frostooth could ever do— and he could hear himself talking before his head could catch up to him.

"Well, you know what, Cinder?" he said, his mouth opening and speaking of its own accord before he could stop it, as though it were it were someone else talking in his voice. "You're not mom, either. Because mom wasn't _stupid._"

If the silence after Cinderfang's outburst had been quiet, then you could have heard a pin drop in the one that followed Ashclaw's.

For a split second, Cinderfang looked stunned— her eyes wide in surprise, like Ashclaw had told a bad joke— and then a look of absolute hurt crossed her face. It pained Ashclaw just to see it, his own heart twisting at her expression, but the damage was done. An instant later, Cinderfang shook her surprise off.

"You know want to know somethin', Ashclaw?" she said slowly, staring back at him. A pool of clear, unshed water began to grow in her eyes. "Do you want ta know why I don't work hard all the time on my lessons? It's because maybe— just _maybe_— I would do better if I had some'un at home _worth _makin' proud of me."

Cinderfang spat out her last words, the tears that been growing in her eyes beginning to trickle down in her face, and Ashclaw felt one more stab of pain before Cinderfang violently shoved him away and stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

Ashclaw was still trying to register what had just happened before the door thunderously slammed open a few seconds later, bouncing off the wall and making him jump. Cinderfang stood in the entrance, tears pouring down her face.

"I _HATE _YOU!" she screamed. She slammed the door shut again.

"FINE!" Ashclaw screamed back, even though he knew Cinderfang had long since fled down the hall. "SEE IF I CARE!"

When his chest had finished heaving, and he had managed to unclench his paws from the shaking fists that had curled into, the pine marten was left alone in the room with a discarded messenger bag and an aching heart.

* * *

_A.N: Damnit, I told her over an' over an' over, "Don't go ta the dungeon, it's dangerous; don't go ta the dungeon, it's dangerous" an' what does she do? Go ta the stinkin' dungeon! I can't let what happened ta mom an' dad happen ta her— Dark Forest, I'd kill myself if I ever did— but she's gettin' so 'ard ta talk ta, an' now I— Well, I din't… I din't mean it when I—_

…_I'm goin' back ta work now._

(A.N: Thanks for bearing through the long chapter with me, guys. -SL)


	9. Chapter 8

_"Let me make 'un thin' clear to you, Farflit, because you don't seem to understand this, no matter how many times they whip your damn tail."_

_The taller grey fox leaned into his face, poking his chest and staring at him with the same unyielding, fierce eyes he had. Farflit gritted his teeth and stared back._

_"When you are IN that line of soldiers, you are not YOU. You are a part of a group, just another cog an' pulley, an' you don't get a choice about your decisions. You listen to what yer sergeant says an' follow orders. That's it. There is no talkin' back, there is no defiance an' disobeyin' orders, an' there is no steppin' out of line. You do not have that choice. You never will, either, unless you suck it up an' become worth somethin' in the line of command. An' seein' yer attitude," she said, coldly looking him over, "I doubt yer ever goin' to do that."_

_"If bein' worth somethin' means becomin' as stupid as the sergeant, Aunt, I think I'm as damn high up in the ranks as I need to get."_

_"Don't talk back to me, Farflit, because I gurantee yer not goin' to like where it will end. 'O are you still busy denyin' the way to elevate yerself up in the ranks because yer pride is too hurt to acknowledge you were wrong?"_

_"…you teach me, an' then you get angry when I call the sergeant out on his idiocies. I'm not the 'un makin' the mistake here, Aunt. If you didn't—"_

_She began to laugh before he could even finish his sentence. Farflit's words died under her mirth as he shut up and stared at her. The grey fox finally finished laughing, momentarily wiping the tears of amusement from the corner of her eyes. A few of the last chuckles faded as she looked at her nephew again. She gave him a grim, toothy grin._

_"You believe you've learned more than the sergeant already. How cute, Farflit. I en't seen you lookin' this ignorant an' adorably naïve since you were five seasons old. So, tell me, nephew, what have you learned to do better than the sergeant? Lead? Inspire others? Organize assaults? I think not. You're still a bottom rung part of Mavern. I suggest you remember that."_

_"He doesn't lead, inspire us, 'o organize us. You do. The sergeant position is worthless, in his paws. An' I can already do the 'un thing he's good at better than he can."_

_"An' what would that be?"_

_"Killin' the enemy."_

_"Oh, of course you can kill the enemy, Farflit," she softly, tilting her head to look at him. "But that's not the hard part. I would expect capability in that out of you."_

_"An' what would the hard part be, then, Aunt Tilda?"_

_"Killin' yer ally."_

* * *

Farflit did not have many friends.

He was fine with that, because as far as the grey fox was concerned, he wasn't going to lie to anybeast and pretend he liked them when he didn't. Nothing came out of faking friendship but a few petty greetings sweetened with false happiness and flimsy alliances that would collapse as quickly as a hordebeast's lies.

This often pissed off the naive beasts who had a tendency to refer to everyone as a friend out of politeness, Farflit thought, or believed they were owed it. But he didn't care. He wasn't going to waste his or someone else's time. When he met someone, they were acquaintances, not _friends, _despite what jabbering and whining woodlanders and vermin alike aimed at him. 'Friends' were not beasts you had met an hour or two ago.

If you couldn't trust somebeast to mend your wound on the battlefield, and then help you off the battlefield to heal another kind of wound stitches couldn't close, they were not your friend. If you couldn't trust somebeast to watch your back on the battlefield, and then continue doing so off it, they were not even your acquaintance.

_It took me four seasons before I trusted Laikan,_ Farflit thought. The grey fox took in a deep breath, raising his sledgehammer again before he picked out a spot on the sandstone to chip at next. The left side was too bumpy; hitting the right side would weaken the structure block. Right side it was.

Farflit swung his hammer down. There was a crack of metal against rock. The grey fox grunted, sandstone powder smudging his fur, and the humming and cracking of other hammers nearby set a thrumming rhythm in the dim mine.

It was ironic that the ex-corsair who had been on one of the most vicious ships on the western coast was scared of a friend because they had just killed someone, Farflit thought… especially when every last one of his older 'friends' would have stabbed him in the back without hesitation, and he had been unafraid of them.

But as resilient as Laikan was— and as commendable as his reformation had been— the rat had spots of judgment that were as stupid as his sense of humor, the vulpine thought, raising his sledgehammer again. At least Laikan had recovered enough to sit near him at this point. Gittem was still giving him an awkward mix of acceptance and the cold shoulder.

The problem with having few friends and many acquaintances was that when you managed to anger them or step on their moral opinions, it was easy to be left alone for weeks on end with no real company. Farflit was used to it; he never apologized for anything he wasn't sorry for. You didn't lie to friends if you didn't have to.

Farflit brought his hammer down again with a grunt, his corded muscle tightening and hardened shoulder blades rising and falling. He began to pick up a rhythm, following one steady blow after another, and his muscles began to have the dull burn from hard labor. All around him, there were the accompanying rings of other miners bringing their own hammers down, the cracks resounding through the craggy rock passages. Sledge loads and carts creaked and groaned in protest as some other workers loaded sandstone up, gritting their teeth and towing the loads back towards the mouth of the tunnel.

"Three more hours, an' you're all out for lunch," Wringer called out, his words echoing around the sound of shattering rocks as the weasel overseer moved from mineshaft to mineshaft. He slipped between workers and over rock piles with all the finesse of water running through cracks. "How about we 'ear somethin' a bit nicer than breakin' stone?"

One of the workers nearby— a massive-shouldered and droop-eared wildcat with more scars along his back then he possessed earrings— swung his hammer down, cracking open a boulder of sandstone. He raised his voice, sounding as gravelly and hard as the rock he was breaking.

"_Some vermin say a beast is made out of mud_

_A poor beast's made out of muscle an' blood,"_ the wildcat sang, punctuating the second line with another swing of his hammer. _Crack._ The rat next to him began to take up the tune.

"_Muscle an' blood an' fur an' bones_

_A skull that's thick _

_An' a back that's strong_

_You load seven sledges, what do you get_

_Another day older an' deeper in debt,"_ the whole mine sang, echoing in the chorus of hundreds of baritone and hoarse voices, with a few higher-pitched female voices lightening the influx.

"_Vulpez don't call me 'cause I kin't leave_

_Got ta mine ten more tunnels_

_An' poor beasts don't grieve!"_

Farflit added his own voice to the rise and fall of the song, finishing every line with a sledgehammer strike, and his whole body thrummed with the rhythm of reverberating voices and pounding metal. He focused on nothing but breaking the stone in front of him, and the fox didn't so much as look sideways at the rough, sea-worn voice that joined in the song next to him.

_I was born 'un mornin' when the sun din't shine_

_I grabbed up my pickaxe an' I walked ta the mine_

_I went an' loaded four sledges of shale_

_Had three more on the way_

_An' the overseer said "Well, a-bless my tail"_

_You load seven sledges, what do you get_

_Another day older an' deeper in debt_

_Vulpez don't call me 'cause I kin't leave_

_Got ta mine eleven more tunnels_

_An' poor beasts don't grieve!_

The words echoed a final ring in the mine, carrying through the long and hollow passage the same way an adder had carried Shaal away down one, and Farflit didn't look at Laikan's face as the rat deepened a crack in the rock next to him. Further on down, Gittem worked on brutally hammering away a particularly hard piece of shale.

"Alright, enough with all the miserable whinin'; I want ta get on somethin' fun!" A voice called from another part of the mineshaft. His message spread throughout the miner's line like a ripple on the surface of a pond.

"What, like your mother?" another miner called. "'cause I said that about her last night." Snickers and coarse laughter followed the comment.

There was a crack of breaking stone.

"No, we're talkin' about his wife!" yet another vermin called.

"Aw, now, Harran," a serious, solemn ferret said, his grave attitude cutting off the first vermin's angry protest and deflating the laughter, "you know better than ta keep badgerin' the prostitutes."

"Hey, tha— OI!" the first vermin roared, and Harran— a sleek, black bar patterned fox with a crescent cut over his nose— burst out into hooting laughter. "Up yours, Jigal!"

"I'm sure that's just what you want ta do ta him," Harran said, still snickering. The very harassed first vermin, an unfortunate rat with ring-tattooed wrists and dusty-colored fur, gave a colorful oath Laikan would have been proud of.

"No, but since you won't shut up, I _do_ want ta drive this scumsuckin' sledgehammer right up your—"

"Vulpez, Jigal, listen ta that _innuendo_," Harran said, pausing in his hammering to dramatically place his paw over his heart. He already had two or three scars over it from someone tryin' to shoot him, Farflit thought. Typical Harran. "You might want ta keep your belt on tight while you an' Mank are alone; the poor scumsucker is startin' ta sound flustered."

"You bilgesniffin' piece of snakespit—" Mank growled, his ears flushing. Jigal laughed.

"No fightin' about bedmates over there, lads," Wringer said, having heard their conversation as he passed. "There's plenty of towns around here ta make some lovely acquaintances, though I've been 'earin' the maids complainin' about all the miners." The weasel lazily crossed his arms. "Apparently, the problem is that you lot are always comin' an' goin'— an' always too soon," Wringer said, punctuating his comment with a wink. The mine roared with raunchy, approving laughter.

It took less than five seconds for the tides of teasing to turn.

"Harran, ya poor mucker, it's no wonder you're flirtin' with Mank; I haven't seen any vixens around ya for the past two seasons. We need ta find you a maid, stat—!"

"Heh, I think Wringer was talkin' about you right there!"

"Hellgates he was; that was ya in a nutshell, brushtail."

"Now, now, ladies, cease your arguin'. You are both pretty—"

"Shut it, Jigal, you blunderin' gobshite."

All throughout the whole thing, there was the wringing of hammers placing pauses between every bit of teasing or arguing, and in the far left corner of the mine, a Damsontongue tribal hymn began to roll through the tunnel. It made the fur on Farflit's neck bristle uncomfortably as he cracked apart another piece of sandstone. He had heard Shaal singin' that song more than once, and often accompanied by Yang and a few of his other companions who could keep up a tune… _Includin' me,_ Farflit thought.

"_Hey, Farflit, why aren't you joinin' in?"_

"_I don't like singin'. …an' I don't know the words."_

"_Leave him be, Shaal. If he does not wish ta sing, he should remain silent. We have heard his sharp tongue enough today."_

"_Oh, come on, Yang! An' you kin sing, Farflit; stop thinkin' you can't. See, I'll teach you. The words are easy. 'His eyes, they closed, an' the last breath spoke…'"_

Farflit was snapped out of his memory by the sound of a shattering rock, almost startling him. He hadn't even known he had taken a swing.

Next to him, Laikan hummed along to a sea shanty under his breath, his eyes clouded with memory as his tattooed back and arms swayed with every hammer strike. His memories probably held nothing but one debauched incident of thievery and drunkenness after another, Farflit thought, but if anybeast was going to find something good out of it, it was Laikan. He had the unnatural ability to find a grain of worthiness in something where there didn't seem to be any.

The miners around him were still continuing their crude insults and barrage of mockery towards each other, just to make the dusty time underground bearable, and Mank was already being wound up again with lots of innuendo towards his absent wife. The miners were a classless group who took what they could for entertainment, Farflit thought, even if the same thing was what the most drunken and pathetic wretches alive would use to entertain themselves. Some of the beasts here definitely fit into that category— in both looks and wit.

Farflit had taken seasons to adjust to the casual bawdy atmosphere here from the prim, more professional one of Mavern, where making those comments to a superior would get your tongue tip clipped or land you some lashes. The grey fox knew how much both of them hurt.

Erskine's workers always made visits to the surrounding villages for trade, supplies, visitin' family— like Mank— and when they had spare nights they had been let off work. They drank themselves into roaring hazes, Farflit thought, and bedded with anything that moved. Their dignity meant nothin'; but it wasn't like it had meant much to them to start with.

They left their mark very well, Farflit thought. When he passed through several of the towns, he would sometimes recognize blurry features from coworker quarry beasts within stray cubs, and Farflit had felt a sense of distant familiarity with more than one young beast he'd never met before. He had ran into several of Wringer's sleepy-eyed bastards in three or four of the surrounding villages, each young weasel marked with the same handsome features and indolent, honeyed way of movin' and speakin' as their father.

In the closest nearby town, Farflit had been given disturbed pause by the occasional glimpse of a sharp, thin-faced grey fox cub more than once. But the cub had always slipped away before Farflit could get a solid look at it and decide whether or not two Damsontongue stripes belonged on its face after all… or if the cub hated him as much as its father now did.

Farflit was eternally relieved that he had yet to see any of his own features looking back at him from a cub's face. He remembered what had happened the last time he had tried to help pups. The memory had made sure to engrave itself into the back of his skull on sleepless, aching nights before Farflit had learned better and stifled it. That was not going to repeat itself. An' to be a _father_— Farflit almost cringed.

When all of the nine cubs you tried to aid ended up dead, it was better to keep your distance from any in the future. You could protect them better by stayin' away.

He could have protected Shaal better by staying away, too, but the safety of everybeast else had taken priority over just one fox… just like the safety of Mavern had taken priority over the lives of the cubs.

"_One day, Farflit, you'll swallow that damn childish defiance of yours an' realize what it means to be in the position to make sacrifices. An' when you do— Vulpez help you. Because I won't."_

At the thought of the hard, brown eyes and rough female voice in his head, Farflit swung his hammer down much harder than he needed to. Laikan kept hummin' away, pretending to disregard his companion's sudden ferocity and motivation as he attacked the rock.

They all had their moments of angry, violent nostalgia. Laikan would say nothing of Farflit's if the fox said nothing of his, and neither of them did. It was that grace which had let the fox look beneath his companion's sea of inked skin and fur to the depths below, and what had let the rat look past his companion's hard shell of military discipline and mannerisms to the kernel of heart within.

And that, Farflit believed, was what made Laikan someone worth knowin' and protectin'.

* * *

Lunch came with plenty of cursing, stretching, and a dropping of mining tools as all the vermin an' a few scattered woodlanders evacuated the dusty, dark belly of the quarry. Laikan and Farflit left the mine passage still coughing slightly and clearing the sandstone and shale dust from their noses and watery eyes. If smoking didn't kill the miners, Farflit thought as he wiped his eyes, then inhaling stone dust would.

He and Laikan settled down next to the hulking form of Gittem as the stoat finished munching up a cooked bird in a crude loaf sandwich. Gittem momentarily perked up when he saw Laikan, the stoat looking for all the world like the doting cub he was the mental equal of, but some of his welcome vanished when he saw Farflit. He scooted over, giving the fox an overtly wary glare.

If Gittem acted any more obvious, Farflit thought, then he might as well scream his thoughts to the whole mine. His face was doing it for him.

"I'm not goin' to kill you in front of everyone, " Farflit said, flatly staring at Gittem.

"Farflit," Laikan warned, putting away the rolled-up smokes he had been getting out to light.

Gittem gave Farflit a wide-eyed, angry and accusing look, all of his emotions swimming openly in his eyes. The grey fox didn't miss the note of confusion or hurt in them either. Gittem hadn't known Shaal in the least, Farflit thought, but his sentimentality for all life was ridiculous. It would have bordered on the level of a sheltered woodlander had not Farflit seen Gittem kill a beast with his bare paws.

His reasoning was childish with all the brute force and muscle of a wolverine behind it, Farflit thought; he had a body as strong as sword steel an' a logical mind as weak as paper.

"You killed Shaal," Gittem said, sounding wounded. He had the same tone of voice as if Farflit had kicked his nonexistent little daughter in the face. "You din't… you din't need ta kill Shaal."

"I did," Farflit said, ignoring the exasperated and uncomfortable look Laikan was givin' him— as well as the approaching weasel and hedgehog— "unless you wanted the adders to slither out into the tunnel an' possibly kill you an' the rest of yer friends."

The confusion on Gittem's face was palpable.

"I didn't want to," Farflit continued, his ears flicking back as Mellia and Wringer slid into seats next to him, "but I had to. You kill someone if you need ta an' there's no other choice. It saves others from dyin'. Shaal wasn't worth a mine full of workers."

_Shaal hadn't been worth Mellia, Laikan, Wringer, Yang, an' you together,_ Farflit thought.

"As unfortunate as what happened ta Shaal was," Wringer said, his familiar nonchalant drawl coming from beside Farflit, "I have ta agree with Farflit. But let's not have any repeats. Tisn't a pleasant thin'."

Gittem seemed somewhat pacified by Wringer's input on things, as if that had changed the entire nature of the situation, but he still refused to scoot closer to Laikan or Farflit. The fox didn't reply to Wringer or Mellia's aged, knowing look. Wringer had gotten his message through clear enough in the short lecture afterwards.

As the weasel went into a lazy slump and crossed his legs, looking perfectly content where he was by Farflit— who was suddenly having trouble keepin' his fur from bristling or an uncomfortable tingle from crawling down his spine— Laikan became very interested in his smokes, focusing entirely on getting them lit like nothin' else existed. Farflit knew he was just busying his paws to keep from making a superstitious gesture at Wringer.

When Farflit an' Laikan had been a fourth of the way done boarding up the cave Shaal was now buried in, Wringer had paid them and the pile of sluggish, scraped adders a visit— and he had stood on the edge of the open mineshaft an' spoken to the latter like they were disobedient guests.

It had scared the pure Hellgates out of Laikan, Farflit thought.

Why the blazes somebeast would speak to adders an' ask them why they had trespassed, Farflit didn't know. Neither did he know what would push some scuffed, damaged snakes to fleeing from their western part of the quarry into a dark, lightless mineshaft far away where they belonged— but he was hardly goin' to _ask_ the filthy spawn about it like Wringer fearlessly had.

The weasel had received no answer from the coiled snakes below, especially not the one with the lump that had once been Shaal in its middle, but Farflit swore he had heard one long, drawn out hiss right after Wringer had left.

He and Laikan had swiftly put aside their disagreements for the moment and hammered the next few boards on as damned fast as possible.

"What are you thinking about, Farflit?"

Farflit blinked and brought himself back to reality as he felt Mellia scrutinizing him. Laikan was smoking now, plumes of grey smoke twining into the air from his roll-up's lit end.

"Nothin' that concerns you," Farflit said. Mellia quietly scoffed under her breath with the desire to give him a smack. The recent action with Shaal had made her temperamental an' melancholy around the grey fox— if 'melancholy' was the right word for that look in her eyes.

Laikan paused in his smoking to give a frown at Mellia's oddly empty lunch bag. He gave a sniff at the same time Gittem did, his whiskers twitching.

"…Mellia, what the stinkin' Hellgates do ye have in there?"

Mellia grimaced when she realized the rat was talking about her bag. She prodded the empty sack as Wringer started in on his cooked woodpigeon wing with unconcerned effort.

"Nothin', now," she said. Farflit caught a whiff of something sour and rotting wafting out of the sack. It smelled like dead bodies, he thought. "But that was after I finished cleaning out the gutted fish and its head."

"I thought I smelled somethin' mucky that reminded 'o the goddamn sea…" Laikan said.

"Did you catch 'em?" Wringer said, ripping off a sliver of woodpigeon meat with his fangs.

"No," Mellia admitted. "I didn't catch my lunch either, wherever it went. But now I know to stick a blade in my apple or hide my meal better next time… I thought they'd have lost track of where I put it after I switched places."

Mellia crossed her arms to punctuate her threat, but Farflit knew bloody well she wasn't going to hide a blade in her apple. She was too soft for that, he thought. She would just box the caught culprit's ears instead of rubbing their faces into the rotted fish or backhandin' them like they deserved.

Ironically, whoever had put the maggot-filled fish entrails into her bag was just as likely to be a woodlander as they were a vermin.

Any reply Mellia had was cut off when the sitting vermin heard the approaching conversation behind them.

"—an' then that slimeball wouldn't give it up, an' I had to knee him the belly—"

"That's a lie; you'd be dead if you had ta take on a hordebeast, rat."

"Shut up, Mank; it's _true_," the younger voice insisted, full of a scowl and artificial gruffness in a poor imitation of his father, "lookit, I have the scar an' everythin', you bugger—"

Mellia gave a quiet sigh as the conversation came closer. Laikan held back a snicker and barely kept from nudging Farflit in the ribs when the grey fox gave him a poisonous look.

"…is it bad I miss the time he used to call me 'grandma'?" the hedgehog said.

"What? Aw, no," Laikan said. He scratched a claw over one of his tattoos, narrowing his eyes. "At least he was too young ta be a snotfaced little smearpile back then."

"I disagree; he was 'un back then," Farflit said, "just smaller."

There was a pause.

"_I _still call you grandma."

"I would never miss you for anything, Wringer, and you don't count."

"Now you're just tryin' ta be spiteful, grey-spiked old 'un."

"Call me that again and one of these 'grey' spikes is going into your eye, grandson."

"Mmm, not if I dodge an' stab back, grandma."

The banter was cut off when the argument that had been migrating its way over broke apart, and the younger vermin involved marched over and tossed himself down on a rock nearby. Wringer gave a sneaky grin of amusement along with Laikan when something unpleasant twitched in Farflit's face. Gittem gave his customary wave.

"'ello, Janno."

"'ey, Gittem," Janno said, not bothering to wave back. The rat crossed his legs and relaxed as if he was somebeast important. Wringer could pull it off. Janno couldn't. "'ey, Uncle Wringer; Mellia. Farflit." Janno lingered on the last name with some hopefulness, but he narrowed his eyes slightly at the next vermin. Laikan snorted and muttered a curse under his breath. "…hello, _Laikan_," Janno said stiffly.

Farflit wondered how much the gangly adolescent had cried when Laikan had started to tattoo him and give him a taste of pain and reality. In his mind, his pride was probably dyin' in a ditch somewhere, Farflit thought. He was around that age for being condescending anyway. The fact that he had grown up surrounded by hundreds of masculine, territorial, pride-bloated miners didn't help much.

Janno had the looks and tough wharf rat frame of his father Erskine an' none of the leadership skills or rough charisma.

"Oh, screw off, Janno," Laikan muttered, not putting as much vitriol into his words as usual. He was probably remembering the terrifying dressing-down Erskine had given him previously. "What do ye want?"

"Do I need an excuse ta 'ang around with you lot?" Janno demanded, raising his paws and lunch bag. "Especially you, corsair? It's 'cause I'm bored. That's all."

Janno looked rather pleased with his comment, his eyes flicking over towards the fox sitting further away. Farflit didn't have the faintest idea why. The fox cracked his neck and finished off his lunch as Laikan's fur bristled, and his calloused fists clenched, digging his claws into his bread.

"Yeah, ye do need an excuse," Laikan growled. His body was doing an unconscious shuffle to hide the serpent tattoo on his arm. "Because we don't want you around here otherwise, whelp."

"Eh, I don't know, Laikan," Wringer said, balancing a piece of shattered bird bone between his tongue and fangs like he was flipping over a toothpick. "It's good ta have my nephew say 'ello now an' then, even if he needs ta tighten his belt a little."

Wringer raised an eyebrow at Janno, and the rat ignored his significant look, though he did seem to curl up slightly from his original cocky pose. Farflit got the message. _You're getting too big for your britches; mind your place._

"What were you fighting with Mank over before, Janno?" Mellia said, trying to soothe Laikan's irritation before it hatched into something nasty. Janno gave a disgusted shrug, emphasizing the action.

"Just tryin' ta deal with that idiot." Another glance towards Farflit. "I was tryin' ta tell him that 'un of the hordebeasts hangin' around the western village went nuts an' tried comin' after me, but I dealt with him just fine. The scumsucker wouldn't back off 'til I hit him in the face with a hammer. Feh."

"Did you kill 'im?" Gittem said, perking up. Breadcrumbs still stuck to his face.

"Aw, no," Janno said, stretching slightly, and Farflit swore his chest puffed out a margin. "Just knocked 'im up a little. Think I mighta broke his nose 'o somethin', but that's about it. Bloody loon. But he gave _me_ somethin', too—"

Janno paused, worming out of his vest, and he twisted his torso to show the assembled vermin the back of his shoulder. Farflit saw a loopy, stitched up oval of piercings that stretched across Janno's back and part of his shoulder blade. The wound had obviously been unbandaged too soon, Farflit thought. _Foolish brat._

"What'd ye do? Get inta a bitin' contest with the scummy frogbloater?" Laikan said, swallowing his previous rile to preserve his dignity. Wringer stretched out his arms and leaned back on his elbows as Janno displayed his wound with obvious pride.

"No," Janno said, ignoring the tone in Laikan's voice in favor of giving him a dirty look instead. "The stinkin' stoat had a temper fuse about as long as his cut-off tail. He started blabberin' an' growlin' nonsense at me, I told him ta back the 'ellgates off, an' then he went for me. I din't expect him ta bite, but I got up an' bashed his face in some. He stopped tryin' it then. Heh. Turned tail an' ran, he did," Janno said, smirking in a way that almost resembled Erskine.

"Why were you even there?" Farflit said. Janno's face brightened at being addressed, even if it was still a bit restrained. He turned back around, shifting his wound out of Farflit's sight.

"I'm goin' out on missions, now," Janno said, stretching the word out as ludicrously as he could manage it while trying to be subtle. He would have been twirling his hammer if it had been in his possession. "We— Jigal an' I— were talkin' about gettin' a few new supplies from the outpost owners, seein' the woodlanders ta the west are gettin' all uppity again about lettin' us buy anythin'. We met a few 'ordebeasts an' the crackpot over there."

"Was he tryin' to kill you?" Farflit said. He could sense Mellia biting her lip, and Laikan held back a grimace… and a small tinge of joy. Wringer said nothing, only flicking the bone over in his mouth again. His dark eyes observed everything, seeming to get darker.

Janno blinked. "What? Well, I mean, he did bite me an' everythin', but I don't think… well, he was, afore I bashed him a few times. I knocked 'em down. He couldn't do anythin' after that."

"He was a hordebeast tryin' to kill you, an' you left him alive to go assault others an' innocents, along with removin' yer wound's bandages ahead of time. You also walked into an outpost with only Jigal an' a hammer for backup, endangerin' you both," Farflit said. "Yer not yer father; you can't pull that off. I'd say yer a worthless fool, not Mank."

Janno didn't visibly flinch at Farflit's words, but his ears reddened to their roots, and the young rat was suddenly stuck clearing out a lump in his throat. He gave a cough, quickly bringing his paw up to cover it, and Farflit disregarded the glare he felt coming from Mellia.

"Well, er, I still won," Janno said lamely. An awkward silence hung in the air afterwards when Farflit refused to break eye contact with Janno. Farflit wasn't going to validate that with a response. The rat was forced to look down.

"So," Wringer said, speaking up in the lag of silence that followed, the weasel lazily propping his leg up, "any'un here played cards lately?"

The frosty ice broke.

After that, lunch passed by like usual. The vermin ate, took verbal jabs at Gittem, murmured a few hollow complaints about schedule, and finished up their lunches just after Wringer left them to go rouse the other workers. They separated before the overseers began to call them back into the mines again, going different ways to tend to the miniscule chores and errands that littered their lives.

Most of them did, anyway.

"Farflit," Mellia said, striding up behind the grey fox. He kept walking, not slowing his pace for her.

"What?"

"You know _what_," Mellia said sharply. Farflit finally stopped at the tone her voice, turning around to look at her.

"Have somethin' to say, hedgehog?" he said.

Mellia paused. Farflit could see the complete disapproval in her pursed lips as she rolled around the words she wanted in her mouth. The hedgehog's spikes were prickling faintly.

"…stop doing that to Janno," she said finally. "He just wants a little of your acknowledgement again, Farflit, that's all. It won't kill you to afford him some."

"It won't kill him to not get some," Farflit said. He moved to walk away again before Mellia stepped in front of him, blocking him.

"That's enough from you," she growled, crossing her arms. She stared the fox down, fearlessly meeting his eyes like he was a disobedient cub. "Farflit, you know he wants your approval. You trained him for three seasons when he was a cub, for spirits' sake; you can't just walk away from that later and pretend he has no attachment to you."

"He's not a cub any longer, Mellia," Farflit said, glaring back at her, "an' I don't intend to coddle him like 'un. The world en't; it's goin' to kill him instead. He needs to grow up an' stop bein' stupid afore it does, because Wringer an' Erskine en't goin' to live forever."

"The world hasn't been the kindest to him already, Farflit," Mellia said, her temper and the heat in her voice rising, "in case you've forgotten about what happened to his mother. Forcing him into adulthood and stripping away the little innocence he has isn't good for him. You filled a gap in his life when he needed somebeast, and you would do well not to forget that—"

"I'm not goin' to feed him any delusions about bein' part of his family," Farflit snapped harshly, "because I'll only join it when Hellgates freezes over. Trainin' is trainin', an' it means nothin' else. I protected him an' gave him the tools to fight because he was a cub— not because of _who _he was an' is. Don't delude yourself like Janno an' find things there that en't."

There was a long pause. Farflit could feel Mellia searching his eyes for something, and he saw the same near-melancholy look he couldn't place the name of in her expression. The hedgehog took a quiet step back when she failed to find what she had been looking for. Farflit began to walk away.

"…he gave me his lunch when he saw I didn't have any, you know," she said, using the same gentle voice with Farflit that she had been using with Janno. The fox felt his guts tie themselves into a disgusting knot.

"Good," Farflit said, refusing to turn around and look at Mellia's face. "Let him starve. Maybe that'll knock some sense into his head."

Mellia said nothing in reply.

Farflit look his leave, feeling as aggravated and unsettled as when he had been remembering Shaal's singing.

* * *

"Oi, Farflit!"

The fox looked up from the rope he was repairing at the sudden call of his name. One of the towing lines to the sandstone loads had snapped after seasons of work and Gittem had kept straining it, and now he was stuck tying it back together until Laikan ran and got a replacement.

"What?" he said.

The slender form of Harran waved a paw at him, coming closer as the fox adjusted his jacket. He had a bandage patch on his brow from where a rock had fallen on his face earlier and cut it open, Farflit thought, but otherwise, Harran was still… Harran.

"You've been ta the more western parts of the quarry, right?" Harran said. He raised his paws up a dramatic shield at the look Farflit gave him. "Hey, hey, din't mean it like that. I mean, you've been along the western part with the shale miners an' outposts, haven't you?"

"Yes," Farflit said, putting down his rope and sitting up straighter. "What do you want?"

"Gettin' right down ta business, en't we?" Harran said, tilting his head in amusement. "Good. Anyways, I was wonderin' if you'd go check somethin' for me an' Jigal— an' more importantly, Slicesnout."

Farflit was familiar with Slicesnout. He was a wretchedly proficient shrew overseer who had brawled and jabbered his way into Erskine's ranks and favors with the same aggressiveness shrews handled everything with. Whether Slicesnout was his real name or not was debatable, but when it came down to it, Farflit didn't give a damn. He was grouchy an' he was an overseer. What he said, went. He was the perfect counterbalance to Wringer, who also seemed to be balancing out the fiery Erskine. The mine's whole leadership system ran on harnessed spitfire and temper, Farflit thought.

"What? An' why don't you check it yourself?" Farflit said.

"Well, y'see," Harran said, settling down as if he was going to tell Farflit an epic, "no 'un's heard from Zebediah an' Hobb in two weeks. 'O much of any'un from over there, really. They've been quiet lately— bein' the wretched, secretive muckers they are— an' Slicesnout wants ta make sure they're not stealin' somethin' 'o slackin' off. He's just too busy to go over there, an' so I am, so I figured you could check for me. Also," Harran said casually, "Jigal is worried Zebediah killed Hobb an' stuffed him in a cupboard 'o somethin'. So, ah, you might want ta make sure nothin' murder-y is goin' on. As much of an idiot as Hobb is, Jigal likes him, for some reason. It would be a bit inconvenient if he kicked the bucket."

Farflit did not exactly agree. The grey fox was familiar with Zebediah and Hobb. He had been forced to work with them in the far, far west before the adder massacre had pushed them all back to the shale section, and then— in his case— further back, due to Erskine's orders.

Zebediah was an arrogant, permanently sour squirrel whose unwarranted self-importance stretched as high as his plumy tail, and he remained one of those beasts who always believed Fate had lowered them to a place in a life they did not belong in. His disdain for his vermin companions and uppity attitude outweighed the worth of any good or decent deeds he had ever done in his life, Farflit thought, or just outweighed _his _worth_, _period.

Hobb was a spotted wildcat. Hobb had been assigned to the same outpost as Zebediah after a nasty incident with a fit of drunkenness and something highly questionable with a sundress.

In short, Hobb was an idiot.

"An' I can't check in on 'em because Jigal got stuck leadin' Janno around, an' I have ta keep them company," Harran said. He looked a bit offended at the unconvinced look on Farflit's face. "Really, what kind of beast leaves their matey stranded with a halfer like that? I have ta 'elp him stay sane."

"Yer not an otter," Farflit said, ignoring the inward prickle and sting he felt at hearing Janno's name, "so don't say 'matey.' Unless yer tryin' an' failin' to imitate 'un."

Harran smugly hooked his thumbs between his coat's lapels and pushed them out, swishing his tail and grinning as he did so. "Of course I'm not an otter; I'm a damn spot better lookin' than any of those waterdogs."

Farflit decided not to dignify that with a response for various reasons.

But Harran did have a point mentioning the western side, Farflit thought. There hadn't been many reports coming in from their side, and their shale mining production had dropped faster than a fool booted down a well. Something was a bit off, and the grey fox didn't trust Harran to catch any subtle details if it was important.

"I'll go check on Zeb an' Hobb," Farflit said, standing up. "But you have to handle the rope repair here until Laikan gets back."

Harran gave him a loose salute. "Thank you very much then, captain efficient."

"You tempt me further every day to hit you."

"Well—" Harran began, a devious gleam in his eyes, and Farflit quickly realized where his snarky reply about 'hit you' was going. _Vulpez, no,_ he thought._ I'm done with this today._ The grey fox got up and left immediately, moving a bit faster than he needed to.

Harran snickered the whole time.

"…an' all I was goin' ta say was _of course you would hit that_," Harran muttered under his breath after Farflit was gone, still snickering as he worked on the rope. He jerked a frayed strand straight and rolled his eyes. "Heh. Military types. They kin never take a joke."

* * *

When Farflit made it to the western part of the quarry— bearing a hidden dagger and a caution for adders— the first thing he noticed was how faint the sound of hammers ringing was.

Farflit had to frown as he approached Zebediah's and Hobb's outpost. It was a slate grey, small and sturdy building jammed into a layered quarry wall, with a jilted roof that matched the forced partners within. You could usually hear Zebediah and Hobb arguing at any point in the day if they were sorting through the orders for the mine. Peace for them was rare. Total silence was almost unheard of.

"Hobb! Zebediah!" Farflit barked. He waited for a response. He got none.

Perhaps they had killed each other after all, Farflit thought, observing the darkness of the windows. Or joined in on the working. Mining was the one time they could get away from each other an' whatever forsaken blackmail or secrets they had holding over each other's heads, and Hobb actually got some enjoyment out of it. It gave him an excuse to sing, at any rate.

When Farflit got halfway to the outpost he realized the windows were dark because they were boarded over.

The fox immediately stopped his approach and reached for his dagger. Farflit narrowed his eyes, his ears pining back slightly as he observed the outpost. There were no sounds of talking or the grinding of the whetstone for Zebediah's dagger. The door was closed. Farflit frowned further when he cautiously walked to the side of the building to get a better look. Both of the small square windows were boarded, but there were no signs of splintered wood or scraps outside the outpost from any retrieval and chopping. No smoke was coming out of the blocky chimney.

When Farflit saw a faint sparkle on the slate floor and felt something crunch underneath his foot, he looked down and saw he was stepping on shattered glass from one of the boarded windows. A faint puff of Zebediah's red fur clung to the edges of the barricade.

Something was definitely wrong now. Farflit backed away from the broken window and circled the outpost before going back to the front. He knelt into a crouch, still making sure to keep an eye on the boarded up outpost and rocks jutting out into the quarry passage. It was hard to see any traces of footprints on the shale surface, but as far as the grey fox could make out, there were only two trails: Hobb's and Zebediah's. They went into the outpost, they went out… and circled the whole building.

Farflit's fur was bristling and his dagger was drawn when he followed the faint footprints around. There were no outside forces like hordebeasts, angered woodlanders, or other vermin trying to get revenge, Farflit thought, ticking off all the possibilities. It was only Hobb and Zebediah, an' at one point, only Hobb. Zebediah's footsteps disappeared completely in front of the shattered window.

Farflit could already feel his heart picking up into a soldier's thud when he followed the rest of Hobb's trail with his eyes. It was hard to tell, he thought, but it looked like the wildcat had gone back into the outpost after wandering around… and Zebediah's footprints still didn't show up again.

For one split second, Farflit's mind derailed, and he thought of Harran's joke actually being true.

_If it is, I'm going to kill him for this,_ Farflit thought, grimacing as he held his dagger up and moved towards the outpost. He would alert Wringer and Slicesnout about the situation once he'd assessed it. As it was, Farflit thought, Zebediah might be injured, and Hobb was afraid. Either their quarrel was over or whoever had been menacing them before was gone now or hiding with hidden trails.

But it was always first priority to check on your comrades for the wounded or information.

_I'll check the perimeter afterwards, _Farflit decided. He took a few cautious steps towards the outpost, dagger poised. The fox stopped a stride away.

"Zebediah! Hobb!" he called, making one last attempt to alert them. "Come out, if yer in there!"

A muffled, scraping sound greeted him. Farflit's ears perked up sharply. He stared at the door.

"…Zebediah? Hobb?" he said in a low voice.

There was another muffled sound. Something pushed against the inside of the wall. A quiet, raspy whisper came from behind the door. Farflit could barely recognize it.

"Hobb, open up," he said. He violently shoved against the door. This was no time for patience.

He didn't expect for it to swing open under his touch like a tarp collapsing.

Farflit stumbled forward as he felt nothing supporting him, the door flying inwards, and he fell into stagnant darkness. The fox slammed down on his knees, rolling across the floor as he scrambled up to get his balance, and the cold outpost floor bit into his legs.

There was a horrible, discordant whimper and half sob, the door was slammed shut, and Farflit was treated to a glimpse of his dagger lying on the floor before he plunged into darkness.

The fox cursed, wavering as he got to his feet. He could literally see nothing in the pitch black, and his balance was disoriented. Farflit groped around for a moment, trying to find the door.

"Damnit, Hobb—"

There was a low, withering hiss, like a teapot was spluttering brokenly as it tried to boil or an adder was being strangled. Farflit suddenly became aware of the offbeat, shallow breathing that filled the whole outpost. It echoed around every wall, crawling beneath Farflit's skin to make his fur rise. There was a faint pat as something took a footstep forward. Farflit immediately backed away from it. The sound of the shallow breathing spluttered in its dying, half-ragged tempo.

"Don't… don't open the door…" the once deep voice of Hobb whimpered, rasping the whole way. There was a soft gurgle and an aborted hiss. "I don't… don't wanna see the light…" Hobb whined.

The smell of rot, decayed fruit, and cloying bodies filled Farflit's nose.

* * *

(A.N: Sorry for the long chapter; they'll get a little shorter soon! Thank you to everyone who's bearing through this with me. You all are fantastic and very patient people for dealing with my verbose tripe; I love you all. In other news, there are two important things:

_One, _a good friend of mine started a riffing website called _Dodging the Anvil_, which everyone should go check out for lovely snarky riffing and amusingly bad material. The website is located here, without spaces: dodgingtheanvil . blogspot . com

and _Two,_ there's a brand new pole on my profile, concerning the characters everyone loves to hate (or hates to love, if you're one of *those* relationships.) Go on and tell me who would you like to see die in a fire most! Why? Well, really, why not?

And on that note, I sign out. Thank you to everyone, once again,

-SL)


	10. Chapter 9

"_Let me tell you somethin', Farflit. No matter how many pledges you may take to protect the innocent— both vermin an' woodlander— an' do all in your power in to guard them with all your strength— it en't ever goin' to be enough. You can't win a war usin' nobility, no matter what the woodlanders may spew. It en't possible. You will have to get yer paws dirty."_

"_But Aunt Tilda, hordebeasts an' Juska torture their prisoners in war, an' they're scum. Do you mean we have to go to their level? Because I never will an' I'll hate any'un who does."_

"_No. We will never go to their level. But you will have to be merciless. If they en't goin' to show you 'o any'un else pity, kill them. Kill them in any way you can, whether it's with your bare paws 'o a weapon. As long as they die, an' you get out alive to keep your good cause an' your comrades safe, how they died doesn't matter. Don't torture. But kill."_

"_All of them?"_

"_If you have to."_

* * *

Farflit froze where he was as the hideous, decaying stench hit his nose, and Hobb's pathetic, distorted words crawled down his ears and spine like so many squirming ants. The wildcat's abnormal, shallow breathing kept filling the silence between them.

Farflit knew that smell. It was the smell of a dead body, one that had already been falling to pieces an' ripened up with maggots and sun, he thought. In the outpost, the scent was so cloying and strong the fox literally felt like he was drowning in it. Farflit struggled not to reflexively breathe in harder and gulp for nonexistent fresh air.

There was a nastier, even sourer current within the scent of corpses. Hobb gave another ragged whimper and moved forward even as Farflit tried to shove away the scent of flesh rotting alive and dank wet fur.

"Farflit," Hobb said. He breathed the grey fox's name out in a raspy, hoarse-throated burst that went with the whimper in his voice like snapping violin strings went with claws being dragged across metal. Farflit's very skin went on end as he took another slow step backwards from the wildcat.

There was a quiet tap and sliding sound as Hobb lumbered forward another increment. Farflit could see nothing in the dark. He could only sense how close Hobb was, could practically feel the wildcat's damn presence feet away from him in the small, square bleak room of the outpost, but the only thing that greeted his eyes was an endless expanse of black.

Hobb paused. There was another soft scuffling sound as he moved again, and this time, Farflit heard more than one paw touching the ground. He couldn't tell whether the Hellgates Hobb had moved or not— or gotten on all fours. Farflit's throat was dry as his paws lingered in the air, and he didn't know whether to try reaching out to find a wall or keep everything down by his sides.

"Farflit," Hobb whimpered again, abruptly changing his tone to the same one he had used when his tail had gotten stuck and crushed between two shale blocks and Zebediah had laughed. "I don't… I don't— hrugh— where are you?"

Farflit didn't reply. For once, he had swallowed every last sharp comment and word back down his throat, including the _right here, idiot,_ that had been trying to choke itself out when he had first fallen into the outpost.

Survival instinct said not to reply to anybeast with the tone of voice Hobb had.

_The stinkin' wildcat doesn't know where I am,_ Farflit thought. He clenched his fists and tensed into a crouch just to keep his heartbeat level. _Not yet. _He blindly groped for his dagger around his waist out of the automatic check to make sure it was there, just to make sure he hadn't been seeing things when he had hit the floor and everything had spiraled out of control.

His paw met nothing. His dagger was lying out there in the middle of the outpost floor. It was merely three or four feet away, perhaps even less— and yet with the huge form of Hobb crushed into the tiny stone room with him, Farflit might as well have had an ocean separating him from his weapon.

There was something wrong with Hobb. Zebediah was gone, Farflit thought. _An' I am_—

"Make— make it stop," Hobb said. Without warning, the wildcat began hissing, hideously gurgling and on the border of snarling at the same time, and Farflit could practically picture his fur and going on end, his thick back arching, and razor sharp claws unsheathing. There was a quiet clack and creak as he moved forward, nudging something across the floor. It didn't sound like a piece of wood or rock. "I don't _want_ this, I don't _want_ this, make it stop MAKE IT STOP!"

Without warning, there was the sound of a thud and something being thrown across the room as Hobb roared, almost hitting Farflit in the shoulder. The fox stifled a curse of surprise and stumbled back, desperately grabbing at the darkness to regain his balance, fur on end and ears pinned back. The blackness disoriented him, he could find nothing to steady himself, and suddenly, his back had thudded into the stone wall.

Hobb immediately shut up. Farflit could still hear him breathing hard and shallow, fighting to keep some control of the tempo, and the cat tried to clumsily pad around the room in a broken, shadowy imitation of the stealth he had possessed before. He awkwardly paused in places, causing hitches in his breathing and little splutters of whispers and whimpers. From where he was pressed against the cold stone wall, Farflit could hear Hobb approaching from the diagonal opposite corner, his disjointed utterances and the smell of rot coming closer like somebeast walking out of a mine.

With horror, Farflit realized that the wildcat was trying to smell him out. An' when that didn't work, Farflit thought, inching back another inch as quietly as possible, then Hobb's sharp, black-tipped ears would perk up. And he would _hear _him out.

_I need to get my dagger. I need to get my dagger an' I need to get to the door._

Keeping his paws pressed firmly against the wall, and trying to keep from gagging on the ever-strengthening smell of vomit and dead bodies, Farflit began to slide to the right. He would have to make a full circle behind Hobb, making sure never to get too close, and then get to the door. Then, make a run for it. Find a solid rock, Farflit thought. Find other miners. Find Wringer or Laikan to back him up. Just find something to kill or incapacitate Hobb with.

"Farflit?" Hobb whimpered again. He sounded low, quiet, and almost polite and tentative this time, since none of his pawing and pacing alongside the wall— wherever he was— had yielded the fox to him. Farflit could hear something slowly, slowly scraping against the walls as Hobb came closer in the dark, his clothes faintly rustling and footclaws tapping on the floor.

"Come— come out," Hobb wheedled. His charm was drowned in a gurgle and jerky intake of air. "I n-need you. I need you ta help me."

Farflit tried to scoot further away, and as he moved, his foot slipped further into the damp spot. It wasn't quite wet, but it was sticky. Farflit prayed to Hellgates he wouldn't slip in whatever it was; he needed to get out—

The fox abruptly stepped over into something wet, and his other heel met a soft clump of fuzz that wasn't cloth.

It took Farflilt a moment to realize it was fur, with a brittle part of the bone still attached.

"Faaarfliiit," Hobb said. He drew out a long, demented moan, warping his usually deep, baritone voice into a hateful whine that couldn't quite lower to the enticing pitch of a cub or innocent. "Please, you— you have ta help me, I kin't stop this, you have ta help me," Hobb pleaded.

Farflit held back a scream.

"Help me," Hobb almost sobbed, Farflit's fur now on end as he shakily tried to continue along the wall, still wading in stickiness and random clumps of fur, stepping on shredded pieces of cloth and hard, broken splinters of something that wasn't rock, "help me, h-help me, help me, h-help me—"

Farflit took another step forward, and too late, he tripped on a round and slick little bone with something still attached. A small curse slipped from between his teeth, he immediately grabbed the wall and hauled himself upright with brute torso strength and clenched his jaws shut, but the damage was done. Hobb gave a hissing, gurgling sound that reverberated through the coffin odor of the room and signaled his fur standing on end. There was a scrambling of feet as the wildcat slipped down onto all fours, going into an unsteady stalking position.

The silence that followed made Farflit almost bite his tongue off as he struggled to remain completely still. He was standing in the middle of the half-dried puddle of blood and right next to whatever the hell the bone was attached to, staring off into the darkness, but neither he nor Hobb spoke up. Both vermin were locked in a stalemate, straining to hear the sound of who would start moving first. Farflit could still hear Hobb's quietly labored breathing, drawing in and out and flooding the outpost with a constant tide of harsh noise.

Then, finally, the hard breathing died away. For a moment, Farflit felt startled fear, but it was immediately dampened beneath cold control and anger. _The sneaky bastard is holding his breath, _Farflit realized, inwardly fuming. _He's tryin' to get me to move first or disguise his own steps._

The-thing-that-had-been-Hobb could go to Hellgates with the crime of what he had done to Zebediah, Farflit thought. He grimly pinned back his ears and began to keep moving along the wall, saying nothing when he stepped into a cloying bump of mush. He muffled his sound of disgust in his chest and moved on, mentally blocking out thoughts of what it could be.

Hobb had been an idiot in sanity. He was far more stupid in insanity. And Farflit wouldn't let himself be killed and ripped apart by a blithering fool, dagger or no dagger.

Farflit took in a breath of his own, as quiet as a frozen pond, and took another step forward, his eyes focused in the general part of the dark where he thought Hobb was. The wildcat was still silent, but Farflit could sense him readying in anticipation of movement. The vermin slipped into crouches, their shoulders tensed, both of their pairs of ears perked as they tried to find each other first, and—

"Farflit!" a voice called. Both Farflit and Hobb froze when they heard the distant voice of Gittem. Hobb shuffled in the darkness, turning his attention to the new voice approaching the outpost, and Farflit began to mentally damn Gittem to Hellgates with every word he knew. "Farflit, are you in there? I dunno what you're doin', but Harran said you were over here."

_In a minute or two, the door will be open, and Hobb is goin' be on top of either Gittem or me,_ Farflit thought. The wildcat was going to go berserk the instant the sunlight hit, and all his sneaking would be for naught. Farflit went into a crouch, preparing himself and controlling his hammering heartbeat and shots of adrenaline. He had an estimation of where the door was. It was now or never.

"Wringer wanted me ta come check on you an' Zebediah an' Hobb, I guess," Gittem continued, as oblivious as ever. "He sounded kinda worried 'bout somethin' after another scout from over here came back—"

Hobb flinched, growling at the sound of his name, and Farflit flung himself into the darkness at the door.

The grey fox's feet pounded across the stone, he accidentally kicked his dagger and sent it spinning across the room, Hobb gave an unholy scream of unshackled anger and insanity, Farflit grabbed the door knob, and a muscle mass of wildcat twice his size slammed into his ribs.

_Hobb had been heading back for the door._

Farflit felt his left foot touch the ground as fingers brush the doorknob just as the claws and furious blow impacted with his side, and both of his feet were swept out from under him as he was slammed into the wall. All of the air was driven out of his aching chest; his skull collided with the wall with an explosion of agonized colors dancing in front of his eyes, and Farflit heard himself gasp out his breath as if Yang had grabbed him by the throat again.

Hobb let loose another horrendous scream, claws as sharp as sickles ripped out of Farflit's side, and the fox felt a line of drool splatter across his face. The smell of death flooded his nose anew. Farflit snarled back and punched with his left fist as hard as he could, and he felt his knuckles collide with Hobb's toughened abdomen and blood-clotted fur. Hobb gave a gurgled sound like an oath, and Farflit felt claws sink into his shoulders as he was hoisted up and slammed against the wall. Pain fissured up the back of his head. Farflit gave a snarled curse before his spine was smashed against the hard rock again, and his head swam in disorienting agony as the pain and dark tried to eat him alive.

_I have a concussion an' I'm goin' to bleed out,_ Farflit realized dully, almost pragmatically, as he was pulled back again._ He's goin' to break my neck an' then start on my throat._

The wildcat gave another distorted snarl, shaking violently as his patch of sense left him. His claws sank deeper into Farflit's shoulders, and Farflit realized what Hobb was trying to line him up for. Still suspended up in the air and pinned down by claws, Farflit drew back his leg and drove his foot forward.

It went straight into Hobb's jaw just before the maddened beast could sink his fangs into him.

Hobb's teeth slammed together with a crunch, the cat whimpering and yelping— and then Farflit drove his other foot into Hobb's chest before sinking his blunt claws into the elbow juncture of one of the cat's arms, and snapped two of Hobb's smaller fingers backwards with his other free paw. The claws embedded into Farflit's shoulder cut through more of his flesh with a tearing burn as he felt Hobb's fingers dislocate.

The split second victory was cut short when Hobb tore his claws out of Farflit's shoulders with a snarl, taking tufts of fur and skin with them. Farflit screamed when he felt the hooked edges jerk out of his muscle and clip through more strands along the way as he fell— _he's cuttin' them like a knife through a damn thread weave_— but the grey fox desperately drew his fist back through the pain and punched Hobb as hard as he could. The claws aiming to sink into his throat only glazed across the surface as Hobb's aim was thrown off; Farflit had hit his elbow by sheer luck. The wildcat half-screamed half-sobbed about 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as his talons skittered across Farflit's throat, leaving stinging trails of blood.

The other set of claws aiming for his face hit a bit more successfully.

Farflit felt his feet hit the ground the same time claws found the side of his muzzle. Two of the claws hooked themselves above his mouth, the third was practically _in _his mouth, barely resting on his upper lip, and then Hobb jerked down. In a split second, Farflit went from feeling a waft of air to having his face on fire and blood flooding across his tongue and pouring out the side of his mouth.

Somebeast was screaming besides Hobb, but it didn't matter; the smell of rotting flesh and the long dead was now becoming a taste to Farflit along with the heady river of coppery blood. Hobb snarled and prepared to bite down somewhere at last. Farflit struggled to right himself against the wall, smearing it with unseen red.

Sunlight flooded the fox's eyes and seared them shut at the same time the door slammed open. Hobb shrieked and recoiled.

"FARFLIT!"

Farflit's knees weakened as he felt Hobb thrashing in front of him, but he was still unable to see, too blinded by the abrupt influx of light. Hobb tried to struggle to his feet, clawing at his brow and trying to rub the sunbeams from his eyes.

"No light!" he whined. "S-stop, stop—!"

It took Gittem a surprising three seconds to cross the room when he saw Hobb hunched over the battered Farflit. The bulky stoat grabbed Hobb by the back of the neck and scruff, and with a grunt of effort, he hauled the other vermin up, and threw the wildcat across the room.

"NO!" Gittem roared, yelling at Hobb as the stunned cat tried to scramble to his feet. "YOU GET OFF HIM!"

As Hobb whined and spluttered in pain, Gittem bent down, getting on his knees to be eye level with Farflit. The fox slowly opened up his eyes, and he came face-to-face with the spinning, blurry image of a worried Gittem, who was looking at him like he was going to burst open if touched.

"Farflit? Farflit, are you okay?" Gittem said, the stoat worriedly milling his huge, blocky paws in the air. Farflit would have choked on a snort if his face and shoulders weren't on fire and spilling his blood out like a dropped tankard.

_No, I'm fine._

Behind Gittem, Hobb stirred, getting up. Farflit's realization of what was happening was delayed by the haze of pain in his head. By the time Hobb was up on his feet— and Gittem was still kneeling, trying to figure out what to do— the warning was too late.

"Gittem," Farflit croaked, gurgling on his blood. He sounded like Hobb. "Gittem, _behind you._"

Gittem blinked in surprise before he heard Hobb's snarls restarting. The wildcat unsheathed his claws. The stoat turned around, still crouching, and Gittem barely had time to get to his feet before Hobb charged him.

"I said NO!" Gittem yelled, stepping to the side. He yelped in pain as Hobb's claws scraped him. Three diagonal red slashes appeared across his stomach, and Gittem drove his fist into the wildcat's face. Hobb gave a muffled yelp with wide eyes as his nose crunched. "Leave 'im ALONE!"

Farflit watched Hobb stumble back into the ray of sun from the door, clutching his bleeding face, and the matted, filthy form of the wildcat came into view. Dried, encrusted blood clung to his jaws and claws, and the fresh blood from Farflit gave it a red sheen. The once well-groomed brown fur Farflit remembered him having was slovenly and spiked up in random filthy waves. Frothy saliva ringed his mouth.

Hobb pulled his paws from his nose, a strand of blood clinging to his fingers before it snapped. The vermin snarled again, shaking away his dazed pain, and Farflit could tell he had crossed the sanity threshold.

The grey fox's knees gave out with a thud an instant later after that revelation.

Farflit didn't meant to make a sound, but he had, and the wildcat's eyes drifted over. Seeing an easier target, he lunged straight for the fallen fox instead of Gittem.

With a crack, Gittem punched him in the neck with fists that had been hauling shale and stone for over nine seasons.

"_NO!_" the huge stoat snarled, his tolerance broken. "Don't _HURT _'im!" He grabbed the wheezing Hobb by the shoulder, throwing the cat against the doorframe. Hobb slammed into the side of it and went careening to the floor. Gittem grabbed the open door even as the other vermin squirmed to stand.

_Crunch._

Gittem slammed the door shut on Hobb's neck. The feline gave a muted scream, his whole body thrashing. Gittem— eyes wide with horror, anger, and adrenaline—threw the door open and slammed it shut again with all his might.

Hobb screamed brokenly, his body thrashing as he tried to get up on his feet, and a terrified and enraged Gittem stomped on the wildcat's back and slammed the door shut again, and again, and again on Hobb's neck, until Farflit lost track of how many sickening cracks he heard or how many blurs of the door he witnessed.

Finally, after one last crunch— something that could have been hours or minutes later of Gittem slamming the stone door shut— Hobb didn't scream. A cut off gasp leaked out of his mouth, and his whole body gave a single spasm before he collapsed. The wildcat's leg twitched once. Then he was still in splattered pool growing around his awkwardly tilted head and mouth.

After making sure Hobb wasn't moving anymore, Gittem let go of the doorknob. The stoat stopped and stared at the floor for a moment before he clumsily shoved the door open again. Farflit's eyes watered in the light, though he could only see it as a blurry rectangle, spilling out into the room. Gittem's shoulders and chest were heaving from exertion as he turned away from the door and moved back over to Farflit again. His eyes were still a bit glazed as he knelt by the fox again.

"Kin— kin you get up?" Gittem said in a small voice. Farflit watched the stoat's face blur in front of his eyes, warping into a dizzying, hazy picture. The fox screwed his eyes shut to avoid retching. He could dimly feel his own breathing rattling up and down his body, but Farflit felt distant from everything but the pain clogging up his shoulders and face.

"No," he managed to squeeze out. Blood was still dripping out of his mouth and collecting in rivulets and iron-tasting puddles everywhere there was a dip in his tongue. He could no longer smell the foul aroma of the outpost for the reek of metallic blood raking the inside of his nose.

The last thing Farflit remembered was grunting in pain when thick paws brushed against the back of his head and shoulders, and then being carefully cradled and lifted away in arms much, much bigger than his as the world blurred and disappeared.

* * *

"…_Are you certain you're right?" the grey fox said, eyeing the scout in front of her critically._

_The red fox scout nodded his head, still in uniform and ruffled from running._

"_Yes, m'am. I'm positive. Cubs all up and down the river have been disappearin', but after we cleared out that last slave line an' got the slavers talkin', it's obvious this en't just a single scum's work. Jisca an' his group want somethin' else besides cubs."_

_By that point, the name 'Jisca' was poison to the military village of Mavern. He was a shadowy, wretched broker of seer prophecies and stolen maps to all warlords and devious vermin. Of course, he was a fox. And this, perhaps, was what made Mavern's woodland neighbors even more wary of them… based on species alone._

"_Information, I'm willin' to bet," the grey fox said. "A warlord 'o two will pay a lot more for knowledge than labor, an' that slimy spy an' mercenary trader knows it." The grey fox leaning over the table paused. She tapped a claw on the wood, deep in thought. The nearby scruffy scout said nothing, still standing rigidly at attention. "The Damsontongues down south were hit by the slavers, as were that otter holt an' woodlander village. Hellgates, they even took a few hordebeast brats to toss rocks at the hornet's nest— an' yet they're bein' far, far too picky an' resource limited to be successful slavers. Somethin' is wrong."_

"_If you don't mind me sayin', m'am, those were some of the most unprotected villages," the fox scout said, dipping his head. "There are plenty of scum out there who'd give their right arm an' leg to be able to reach Noonvale or some of the more fortified an' hidden villages, an' not even for cubs, but for loot an' raisin' morale. Their only problem is that they can't find them. But if they were to send in spies an' try to smuggle the information past us up to Jisca, well—"_

"_That's it. I— damned forked tongue of Vulpez, that's it!" the grey fox snarled, slamming her fist down the table in enraged revelation. The red fox startled._

"_Captain Tilda, M'am?"_

"_The stolen cubs aren't the goods for sale," she said, her fingers tightening into fists on the table as her mind raced ahead. "If they were, then the slavers would be taking much more of them. Jisca's groups are still selling information… but in a different form. The slaves are just cover for the spies… even though they're the same thin'."_

"_M'am, I'm not followin' you."_

"_Jisca has inducted cubs into his ranks, scout," the grey fox said. Her face twisted into a hateful, joyless smile. "Spirits, but he's a clever son-of-a-wench… He steals a few babes, grows them into spies, an' has them dumped off to get adopted into Noonvale 'o wherever else for a few seasons. After they get out, the slave line picks them up. The rest of the captured slaves are just innocent cover. The few spies get mixed in with the rest of 'em, an' no 'un can the difference. Then they go home to Jisca, spill the information, an' that's that." The captain slammed her open palm on the table again. "Jisca gets everythin', an' a village gets damned."_

"…_Hellgates," the red fox whispered. "Are you certain that's right?"_

"_I'm positive," the grey fox said. She offered another humorless smile._

"_But isn't that a bit much for a few spies?" the scout said, sounding hesitant. "I mean, they're cubs, after all— once they go to Noonvale or wherever, they won't want to leave. An' if they did leave, who would harass them on the road home? They're young, clean-lookin' thin's, after all. No 'un would suspect them."_

"_A family bein' held hostage can work wonders for makin' cubs get movin' an' keepin' their loyalty," Captain Tilda said. "An' otherwise, inductin' cubs young for espionage worked out fine— it did for that weasel who stole an otter brat three hundred odd seasons ago, now didn't it? The hordebeasts still sing ballads about that 'un. As for your second question…" She lifted her paw, sweeping it in front of her to gesture at everything. "You're lookin' right at the answer."_

"_He only came up with this convoluted thin' to get past Mavern," the red fox realized. "We've been givin' him a pain in the tail since the beginnin' of time, we're blockin' the swiftest main path up to his den an' keepin' an eye out for the cubs, an' now…"_

"_Do you think any woodlander settlement is goin' to understand what's at stake 'o let us interrogate the enslaved cubs we catch to figure out which 'un is which?" the grey fox said. "Hellgates, if anythin', doin' that will turn them against us, an' we'll have to deal with them later. All our progress, gone. But if we let the woodlanders go to rescue their precious slaves—"_

"—_they'll set them all free," the red fox said in horror. "Every last 'un. Even the spies. An' then they'll just run off to Jisca, except with woodlander protection half of the way."_

"_Exactly." The grey fox sighed, momentarily rubbing her eyes. "Pikesteeth, we're goin' to have to race the woodlanders there to even get to the slaver chains belongin' to Jisca, an' when that happens, we're goin' to be too thin-spread to fight off the woodlanders who are just goin' to swoop in an 'rescue' them. This is goin' to be pulled off by the skin of our teeth."_

"_But… Captain, m'am…" the red fox said, slowly realizing something._

"_What?"_

"_If we're not even goin' to be allowed to interrogate the cubs— 'o even bring them back— how are we goin' to sort the spies out from the innocent 'uns? O' keep on the woodlanders' good side?"_

_There was a pause. The grey fox stared at the table for a long, silent moment before she slowly looked up at her scout._

"…_we're not."_

_The scout swallowed a lump that was suddenly in his throat._

* * *

(A.N: Well, so here we are, celebrating Farflit's good fortune! I joke, I joke. Anyway, a pair of previous reviewers were interested in a character list, so I made one:

_Greyspire Plotline:_

—Ashclaw

—Cinderfang

—Vermund

—Lord Kevern

—Reina

_Minors:_

—Kike, narcoleptic rat coworker

—Ivarr, Cinder's other rat friend

—Frostooth, harsh arctic fox boss

—Escaped mousemaid, ?

—Moklafrist (deceased) old vermin leader

X

_Quarry Plotline:_

—Farflit

—Laikan

—Gittem

—Mellia

—Wringer

—Yang

—Shaal (deceased)

_Minors:_

—Erskine, wharf rat quarry boss

—Janno, Erskine's adolescent son

—Harran, perverse fox coworker

—Jigal, Harran's deadpan ferret friend

—Mank, easily riled rat coworker

—Zebediah (deceased) arrogant sour squirrel

—Hobb (deceased) wildcat outpost partner of Zebediah

—Captain Tilda, Farflit's aunt (not present)

—Jisca, twisted fox information broker inducting cubs into his ranks (flashback only)

X

_Juska Plotline:_

—Dipper

—Anscom

—Rangar

—Slipgale

—Zenrisk Rath

—Atiya Fatewinder

—Taike Fatewinder

—The Taggerung, ? (still absent)

_Minors:_

—Sarck, Slipgale's mate

—Sunstreak, (deceased) Dipper's close ferret friend

—Tabliz Rath, Juskan leader who split the Rath tribe in half (still absent)

—Lady Brielle, Zenrisk's mate / Rangar's mother (not present)

That's around 38 characters in all… argh. Tis a lot to keep up with. But I hope this clears things up! If not, I can also write brief summaries for the main characters as well. The previous chapter doesn't have the flashback with Janno any longer, either; it has been replaced by one with Aunt Tilda.

Thank you to all my readers, both silently following and reviewing. You are all why I write. 3 Nevertheless, if you have something to say, please say it— it takes only a minute to write a sentence or two and hit the "review" button. And I guarantee I'll enjoy your comments, no matter what Farflit gripes about.

In other news, Redemption Twining's update schedule is now going to slow down for a while. Besides now finally having something original to work on, my exams are approaching, and studying is going to have to come before writing. Anyway, Farflit needs a break to heal. And Ashclaw needs to time to get his apology in order. And Dipper, well… Dipper can wait for his Taggerung a little while longer.

May your pens stay sharp,

-SL


	11. Chapter 10

"_Who is it? I kin't— Pelle! You're back late tonight."_

"_I know."_

_The pine marten didn't go to approach his wife as he took his coat off and stuffed it in the tiny bureau the family shared. There was a short, clipped silence that was only filled with cloth rustling and shifting as laundry was folded._

"_Well, it's good ta have you back now," his wife continued. " Cinder an' Ash were askin' for you. I had ta tell them you were workin' late. They're convinced you owe 'em a bedtime story, now. Apparently, me tellin' them 'un isn't the same as their father." She laughed._

"_Guess not." The other marten snorted bitterly. "But try tellin' that ta Lord Kevern."_

"_...Pelle, Lord Kevern isn't the reason you had ta work late," the female said. Disapproval colored her voice._

"_No, but the beasts he hired ta work in the dungeon are. An' seein' our wonderful Lord says he knows whoever he invites inta Greyspire, an' got us INTA this damn buildin', that places him in charge of that precious dungeon of his, doen't it?"_

"_PELLE! In case you don't remember— as you've so kindly reminded me— he IS the reason we're here."_

"_Of course you'd defend him. Why am I not surprised?"_

_There was the sound of something being slammed down on a table._

"'_Of course'? What do you MEAN, 'of course you'd defend him'?"_

"_Nothin'. I'm goin' ta sleep."_

"_No you're not; after that remark, you're not—"_

"_Aiyana, this is over, I'm goin' ta damned sleep—"_

"_YOU'RE THE 'UN WHO STARTED THIS, YOU'RE NOT LEAVIN' IT!" Aiyana's voice faltered. "What is WRONG with you? You've been pickin' fights with me all WEEK, an' then you just walk off an' leave me alone; do you think this is funny?"_

"…_no," Pelle said in low voice._

_The footsteps heading towards the door had stopped at the beginning of her outburst. There was another halting pause. The female marten hesitated in her anger, slowly drawing closer to her mate._

"…_Pelle?" she said, tentatively reaching a paw. "…are you alright?"_

_Pelle sucked in a hoarse breath. "Aiyana, I— Just… I can't—" Pelle stopped, struggling to find words. "I'm done," he said. "I'm so done with everythin' goin' on in this job. 'All you have ta do is guard them,' Lord Kevern says. 'All you have ta do is make sure they don't get out an' tell others about us, for your cubs' sake.' He din't say we would end up protectin' the prisoners from US."_

_Aiyana was quietly reaching out a paw as Pelle spoke, moving as so not to spook the beaten creature away, and her paw softly came to rest on his shoulder. Pelle reached up and grabbed it, trying to find the strength to continue._

"_The thin's that go on in there— Aiyana, it's less of a prison now as it is a torture dungeon," he said, squeezing on to her fingers. "I hate the woodlanders, an' I don't want them near our cubs, but what am I supposed ta do when they're broken inta nothin'? Bein' trapped down there with the vermin who are realizin' they have complete power over them— that the woodlanders can't throw them out 'o hurt them back this time— it's a nightmare. They're not guardin' them anymore; they're just hurtin' them for the hate. Vulpez, Aiyana, what do I DO?"_ _Pelle said, voice cracking, and Aiyana wound her arm around his back. "I can't even look Revisk in the eyes anymore after what he did that squirrelmaid, an' the others, they're the same!"_

_Pelle made a violent gesture, almost shaking Aiyana off, but she still remained close as he ranted._

"_They look the other way, 'o they join in, an' they all pretend it's alright as long it stays in the buildin' an' no 'un talks about it. It's not just Revisk, either… I can't look half of our friends in the eyes in longer, Aiyana, not when I've seen what they can do left alone… I don't care about hatin' the woodlanders 'o keepin' them prisoner any longer," Pelle said, hoarse and worn. "I never want ta see another frostbitten woodlander in my life. Not like that."_

"_Oh, Pelle," Aiyana whispered, ceasing her little comforts and cupping his face. Pelle closed his eyes, exhaustedly slumping forward and burying his face into the side of her neck._

"_I'm tired," he said, voice so fragile and small it was breakable behind the way Aiyana's fur muffled it. "Spirits, I'm so damn tired of this job, Aiyana; this isn't what Kevern promised us—"_

"_I know," Aiyana whispered, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. She stroked the top of his head soothingly. Pelle embraced her back, holding her as close as possible with desperation for warmth. They gently rocked back and forth. "I know, love, I know—"_

_Pelle shakily muttered something undistinguishable into her neck. Aiyana moved her face down to press it against his and murmured something back, still stroking his head, and from then on, the conversation became inaudible._

_Half a room away, the gangly cub Ashclaw closed the door he'd been peeking through and fled back to his and his sibling's bed to bury his face in the covers._

* * *

There were no words for how much Ashclaw hated his job.

He jerked the last knot on the torch firm, making sure it wouldn't fall to pieces when lit up. To be honest, he didn't care if the damn thing did or not. He was finished, an' that was that. Frostooth could go to Hellgates, for all Ashclaw cared; _everyone _in Greyspire could go to Hellgates.

Ashclaw dunked the torch in the oil bottle nearby, waited until it was soaked, and then yanked it out before heading to the completed torch table. He tossed it amongst the others before trudging back to his table and flopping back in his chair.

Kike remained silent and wisely withdrawn at his table and said nothing to his coworker when Ashclaw stared at the table too long before he jerked forward the materials to make a new torch.

The rat had been quiet ever since last week, Ashclaw thought. He began on another torch.

Kike had seen his sulkiness or something in Ashclaw he felt he needed to comfort. After so many small gestures and hints from the rat that hinted he wanted an explanation for why Ashclaw was feeling bad, that he wanted to listen and hear him out, Ashclaw had told him to just _shut up an' go back to sleep._

Kike wasn't his father. An' seein' that Cinderfang hadn't come back to their shared bedroom, the pine marten was damn well aware that _he _wasn't his father, either.

Cinder had been gone for five days.

Ashclaw had seen her twice at breakfast, once when her eyes were still swollen and red from tears, and another time when they had been almost shoved in line together. Both occasions, the pine marten siblings had immediately turned their backs and shoved through the crowd as hard as possible to get away from the hollow, mismatched eyes staring at each other, and— in Ashclaw's case— to get away from the lump that always welled up in his throat and the burn that seared at his chest and eyes.

"_Well, you know what, Cinder? You're not mom, either. Because mom wasn't—"_

"—stupid," Ashclaw growled hollowly under his breath as the torch came apart in his paws. A well of disgust and hurt started stinging in his chest again. Suddenly, Ashclaw couldn't look at another torch or his fingers automatically tying the knots to create them one more time, or he was going to retch. The possibility of Frostooth's punishment for skipping work didn't seem so threatening anymore. The fox couldn't hurt him worse than he was now.

The pine marten stood up out of his chair and dropped his unfinished torch on the table. From across the room, Kike— the only other vermin still working; everyone else was either still absent or picked up more supplies— hesitantly glanced up as Ashclaw shoved his chair in.

"I'm takin' a break," Ashclaw said, noticing Kike's look. "You kin tell Frostooth I left early."

"I'll make sure to do that," Kike said. He picked through every word as cautiously as possible, not wanting to prod Ashclaw's sore spots any further. Ashclaw would have felt a sting of guilt at seeing the ashamed, cowed posture of the harmless rat, but at that point, he was too numb in Vulpez knew what to feel anything.

The marten left the room without another word. He didn't want to see Kike's face or the cramped quarters any longer. He had been hiding in them for the past five days to avoid having to go back to his room and see the crumpled, empty covers that meant Cinder wasn't there, 'o to keep from trudging through the courtyard and having to see her going to class or back to her room— her _other_ room.

Cinderfang had been camping out with Vermund for the past five days. The ermine had only given Ashclaw the delicate minimum of information concerning her wellbeing— yes, she had a place to sleep; he'd given up the bed for her. Yes, she was going to class and breakfast. No, she wasn't skipping class.

Vermund uncomfortably avoided all questions about whether or not Cinderfang was getting actual sleep or why his neck fur was looking awfully tangled as if had it gotten soaking wet, ruffled, and dried out. Ashclaw didn't ask the questions to start with.

_I need a stinkin' nap, _Ashclaw thought, trudging down the hallway to his room. For once, his exhaustion was overriding all the lingering pains and memories of screaming that came with returning to his bed, and he wanted to bury his face in the thin pillow and black out.

Ashclaw opened to the door to find Cinderfang sitting on the bed.

For a moment, he stood in the doorway, staring at her. Cinderfang was sitting with her paws neatly folded in her lap and her legs dangling off the side of the bed. She was wearing her combination of a habit and pants underneath, the tassel around her waist tied snug to keep the large robes from drooping.

If it wasn't for the way that she immediately stiffened up before looking down when her brother came to the door— and the fact that her clothes were disheveled from more than one day's wear— Ashclaw would have dismissed everything as a surreal hallucination from Frostooth beating him over the head one too many times.

There was a long, awkward pause as Ashclaw stood in the door and didn't come closer. Neither of the siblings spoke. Cinderfang's eyes finally flickered up an increment as she grabbed a fistful of some green material pooled on the bed.

"I was comin' back ta get more clothes," she said hollowly, lifting up the pawful of cloth. Ashclaw could see that it was the only other habit she had, unfolded and lying on the bed next to her. Something painfully thudded behind his ribs. "Vermund… doen't have anythin' that fits me in his room."

There was another pause.

"I see," Ashclaw said. His voice came out flat and emotionless. The marten felt sand grating up and down his throat and killing his ability to speak. Nothing wanted to come out. "He really doen't wear habits that much. It's… because of all 'is fur."

"I know."

Ashclaw finally got the ability to move out of the doorframe, and he did so with clumsy, stiff movements that matched how immobile his joints were feeling. Cinderfang swallowed quietly and glanced back at the floor when Ashclaw closed the door behind him and moved closer. He began to walk towards her— almost looking ready to reach out— but halfway through the small room, Ashclaw abruptly spun on his heel and detoured to the bureau. He didn't look at Cinderfang or the way her fingers were curling up in her lap in her nervous tic, or how her tail was bristling faintly.

"You need ta take a coat," Ashclaw said, browsing through the vast selection of five outfits they shared between them. He could see his fingers flicking through the folds of cloths far, far too fast, and fumbling when they didn't hook beneath a garment's side immediately. "It's still cold out. There's goin' ta be rain. Which might be sleet later."

"I heard about that from Ivarr, some," Cinderfang said. Her words faltered, ears drooping back for a moment and eyes widening for a second. "While— while we were at lunch; he was on break with Vermund." There was a hesitation that soured in the air far more aggressively than previous ones. "…you din't tell me he got a dungeon job."

"He was goin' ta tell you himself," Ashclaw said, ignoring the harsher tone to her words, even though the clothes were suddenly harder to grab and he didn't want to be still, and that stupid line of fur down his spine wouldn't stop _bristling. _"This coat should work. It's got a hole in it, but you kin fix holes," Ashclaw explained lamely, pulling out the coat and almost jerking a folded up pair of pants out on the floor along with it. He was still staring at the coat and wall instead of Cinderfang as he held the garment spread wide in his paws. "It should be enough to cover you."

"Yeah," Cinderfang said. "I mean, it fits you. It's goin' ta fit me." The marten maid hesitated, words clinging to the tip of her tongue, and Ashclaw realized that he was holding his breath and burning a hole through the coat and wall with his focused stare.

"…I went ta my classes this week," Cinderfang said. "I'm doin' better in them."

Ashclaw forced the breath he had been holding to leak out from between his teeth.

"That's… that's good, Cinder," he said, inwardly wincing and already hating the pointless, worthless words as they crawled out of his mouth. To compensate for them, Ashclaw finally made himself turn around to look at Cinderfang. She was still on the bed, fidgeting with the folds of her unfolded habit in her claws. When turned around, he felt Cinderfang make her eyes look up from the floor and focus on him… but not quite on his face.

"That coat should work," Cinderfang said, the previous venerable edges that had been clinging to her last words extinguished from her remark. She sounded nearly deadpan now. "It's better cover than the habit, at least."

"Yeah. Definitely."

Cinderfang's shoulders tensed as Ashclaw came closer, but her paws came up to take the coat from his outstretched arm. Ashclaw hesitated as she reached for it, pulling back a margin. Cinderfang froze, her gaze sharply shooting up to his face.

"Cinderfang, I…"

"What?" Cinderfang said, a fragile eagerness to her tone.

Ashclaw swallowed back the clump of words in his mouth that were suddenly trying to strangle each other and make everything come out wrong. He fished out something else instead.

"I want you ta go with some'un with you the next time you go ta the dungeon. Don't go alone ta visit Vermund. It's not safe."

Some expectation hanging in Cinderfang's face died. She deflated, her expression growing stonier after the flash of hurt.

"Fine," she said coldly, sitting up again and reaching for the coat. "I'll remember ta do that, _Ashclaw._"

Cinderfang's fingers only brushed against the coat sleeve before it was softly jerked away again, leaving only the tips of her claws hanging onto it. Ashclaw wasn't done yet.

"An' Cinder…" Ashclaw stopped, trying to get his boiled and churned insides and brain together. Cinderfang's mouth twisted sourly in impatience, but it didn't match the look in her eyes.

"What?"

"I'm only tellin' you that because it's not the safest place, that's all, an' I should have been clearer earlier." Ashclaw's eyes looked away from her face, staring off at the floor. "Sometimes I'm not clear about what I mean when I get tired 'o stressed, an' I confuse other beasts. I… say thin's I shouldn't say. An' thin's that I don't mean. I'm sorry. For that happenin'."

Ashclaw could only make himself look at Cinderfang's face again when he was done speakin', and he couldn't even read her expression. The older marten finally held out the coat for the last and genuine time, not intending to pull it away again. Cinderfang's paws refused to grab it, despite it beginning right between them.

"You kin take the coat back ta Vermund's, now," Ashclaw said. Cinderfang seemed to realize that he was truly offering it to her this time. She grabbed it by the sleeve.

"…you're stupid," she said finally.

Ashclaw stared at her blank shock. The pain— and some anger— registered a moment later at her words. _Is this it?_ Ashclaw thought, trying to hold down the bitterness and sting over his rejected apology, especially when it was rubbed into the raw spot his speaking had left behind. _Is this all I'm goin' to get?_

"Thank you," Ashclaw said coldly. Cinderfang's head snapped up at the tone of his voice.

"I— damnit, Ash, I din't mean it like that!" she burst out, giving the coat sleeve a shake in her frustration.

"Then _how_?" Ashclaw growled, his previous weariness eating his patience, "How did you mean it, Cinder? Because there's only a few ways ta take that."

"I wasn't callin' you stupid, I din't _mean_ ta, even though I—" Cinderfang flushed beneath her fur, floundering in her inability to speak. "I just— I was just tryin' ta say that it's stupid ta think only you say stuff you don't mean ta when you're stressed, because you're not the only 'un who does that, an' it din't come _out _right, an' 'ellgtes, I din't mean ta say somethin' else— "

Cinderfang's high-pitched voice went silent as she started to quiver, and she still didn't let go of the coat. She couldn't look at Ashclaw's face, or anywhere near his face, even though she was still shakily trying to yank the coat closer with Ashclaw's paws still holding onto it. He got closer with each one of her pulls, and Ashclaw found he couldn't let go of the coat either, and then he was standing right in front of the bed where she was sitting down.

It took only one split second of eye contact between the two of them to trigger Cinderclaw into leaping up and wrapping her arms around him.

"I'm sorry," she said, her face buried into his chest as she kept shaking, and Ashclaw hugged back as Cinder began crying, her tears dribbling into his fur. "I'm sorry, I din't mean it—"

"Sssh, it's okay, I promise it's okay," Ashclaw muttered, pulling them both down to sit on the bed as he pressed his face into her shoulder and cradled her. Were those his own words quakin' that badly, an' why was his face wet? "I din't mean it either, it's okay—"

"It's n-not okay," Cinderfang whispered, her voice still a muted squeak. Ashclaw could feel every one of her tremors from where she was pressed up against his chest. "I din't mean it; I din't ever mean the thin' about dad, 'o about you bein' a c-coward, 'o anythin' else; I was just so angry at you an' all that work that keeps makin' you tired, an' t-then thin's got so much worse, an' I r-ran out of thin's I could say ta make you stop, an' I— I'm so _stupid_."

"No," Ashclaw said fiercely, pulling her up against him and hugging her so hard their heartbeats almost felt like they could fuse together, "you're NOT _stupid._ Don't you ever, _ever_ call yourself that again, you 'ear me, Cinderfang? You're not stupid, an' you never will be. You're perfect. You an' I just… do some stupid thin's sometimes. That— that 'un thin' was my fault. I should have never said that ta you, no matter how mad I got 'o what you said. You din't deserve that. I'm sorry," Ashclaw said, running his fingers down the back of Cinderfang's soft head, and he could hear his own voice cracking.

Cinderfang sniffed, hugging him tighter in return and burrowing her face into his neck like they were both scared and alone cubs again.

"You got a weird meanin' of the word 'perfect'," she muttered, her words muffled from where she was buried in Ashclaw's fur.

"I never went ta classes ta figure out whether 'o not my definition of it was right 'o not," Ashclaw said, combing down her fur with his claws. "I think I kin use it however I like."

Cinderfang gave something like a quiet giggle against his chest before she sighed and relaxed, letting the tension flop out of her body as she felt Ashclaw gently preening and petting her. It had been a long, long time since they had both done this. Ashclaw felt Cinderfang's paws squeeze his back. He continued to stroke and neaten her head and neck fur. She was a mess.

"…I missed you," Cinderfang said in a small voice, after she felt him keep smoothing her head in an imitation of their mother's grooming gesture. It took only those three tiny words to make Ashclaw's recently patched up heart flip over in his chest.

"I missed you too," Ashclaw said hoarsely. Damnit, were his eyes watering again? "It wasn't the same sleepin' in here without some'un bein' the room with me."

"I know what you mean," Cinderclaw said. She pulled her face away from Ashclaw's chest, setting her jaw against it so she could look up at him. "I love Vermund an' all, but…"

Cinderfang paused and gave Ashclaw a sneaky look.

"He snores."

Ashclaw laughed. The weights that had been on him earlier had lifted, an' he felt higher up than any bird could soar, without even leaving the ground. After patting Cinderfang's head one last time, Ashclaw decided to go after a tricky topic he needed to talk about before his confidence came back down to the ground an' realized what he was doing was probably stupid.

"I know Vermund snores. He does it like a bloody avalanche. He kin't fall asleep on the job in the dungeon 'o anythin'; every'un would be able ta 'ear him echoin' from one end of the place ta another," Ashclaw said. "But speakin' of the dungeon, an' I what I was sayin' about Lord Kevern earlier…"

At the mention of Lord Kevern, Cinderfang stiffened up in his arms. She would have no one badmouthing her precious favorite warlord, somebeast she showered with endless compliments and devoting praise as long as he was absent and not there to trigger a bout of sudden shyness, and Ashclaw was aware of it. He would have to tread carefully to get his point across.

_An' keep most of my opinions to myself, _Ashclaw thought.

"I know you feel the dungeon is safe because Lord Kevern had it made for us, an' really, there would be no point in hurtin' us after he got a complete abbey ta protect everybeast," Ashclaw said, carefully choosing his words. "An' that's true. But the problem en't Lord Kevern— it's the beasts that have joined up an' came Greyspire since then. Not every'un is the same kind of nice as the beasts who originally came here, an' 'ey are very good at hidin' it. An' don't roll your eyes, Cinder; I mean 'ey're hidin' kinds of bad sides that you've never even heard of afore, an' I don't want you thinkin' of 'o learnin' about any time soon. But because the beasts support Greyspire an' work hard— an' only take out their bad sides on the woodlander prisoners— Lord Kevern lets 'em stay. Hellgates, some of them are the best fighters 'o crafters you've ever seen. But it doen't change what they are on the inside," Ashclaw emphasized, looking into Cinderfang's eyes. "An' if you tempt them by goin' down there in the dungeon alone— if you let them think 'ey have 'un chance with touchin' some'un besides the woodlanders, even if 'ey don't get away with it— then Lord Kevern en't goin' ta be able ta help you. Avenge you, yes, but he en't goin' ta get _you _back, Cinderfang."

Ashclaw squeezed her closer for the moment.

"He's a good warlord," he said, choking down the bitterness of that accurate statement, "but he kin't keep an eye on every'un an' personally sort through them. He an' Reina are only two beasts. That's what makes the dungeon so dangerous. …Cinder, you're the only thin' I've got worth workin' an' livin' for here in Greyspire," Ashclaw said. "I don't want ta lose you 'o see you hurt. An' neither would Vermund," he added.

"Ashclaw, I'm not goin' ta get hurt," Cinderfang said, but the usual flippancy was gone from her statement, and she was hugging her brother a bit harder than she needed to. "I'll be careful, an' I'll stick next ta Vermund. Promise."

Ashclaw was satisfied at seeing the understanding look on her face an' at hearin' her agreement— Hellgates, at just having her back after their ridiculous, stupid row— and it was enough to drown out the few disturbed twinges he had felt when he saw the looks of pure, unadulterated adoration on Cinderfang's face was Lord Kevern was mentioned.

She was young, he reasoned, peeking down at her face and poking her nose. Her hazel and brown eyes widened in surprise before she rolled them and released Ashclaw from their hug. Young beasts were always idolizing heroes or something at that point, an' Lord Kevern… well, he fit the mold. This kinda thing was completely natural.

She wouldn't be the first to idolize him. Ashclaw had been much fonder of the warlord who could never do wrong before his father took a newly opened dungeon job.

Pelle Pyrefur had found the idea of the dungeon job appealing. All the pine marten had to do was watch a few woodlanders in cages for a few hours, walk around in the new prison, throw in some food scraps now here an' there— an' sometimes release the prisoners cleared as no longer being threats— an' he was set. It kept him close to home and his wife and two young cubs, and after wandering the ice as a talented scout and spy for seasons, Pelle was beyond happy to have that option. Vulpez, what could go wrong?

As it turned out, when scores of inwardly bitter vermin were placed in an isolated dungeon with helpless woodlanders who could no longer control them or tell them to go freeze and die in the ice, plenty could go wrong.

It didn't take long before the lurking will for revenge raised its head, and a horrified Pelle had found himself looking at friends with new eyes he never wanted and tumbling down the staircase and never-ending downward spiral into Hellgates.

By the time Ashclaw was a springy, thin ten-season-old, he could spot the exhaustion and hate in his father's face— exhaustion and hate for so, so, so many things— an' it wasn't like the hate five-season old Cinder had for dried vegetables or Ashclaw had for snow getting down his pants.

_When dad came home an' broke, _Ashclaw thought, _I broke part of me with him._

Aiyana's soothing had healed none of the deeper wounds. She was tired, too, and it had been starting to show. Pelle was grasping at the fraying strings, begging his once-friends for something to change in their treatment of the prisoners— _anything; _revenge on the woodlanders wasn't worth it, not now; they had a _home— _and nothing did.

And then, three seasons after he had taken the dungeon job, and one season after he had come home and broken down, Pelle Pyrefur had calmly walked up behind his dungeon captain and old friend Revisk in the middle of the courtyard, and driven a spear butt into the back of his head twice. Revisk had crumpled to the floor without consciousness and a bleeding gash split down his skull.

Pelle did not kill him or try to do so afterwards.

But all Hellgates had broken lose.

Finally— over Aiyana's constant protests that Pelle was too stressed and out of his head to be judged an' convicted, an' the flush of horror and confusion that had tumbled through Ashclaw when he learned dad wasn't comin' home that night— Lord Kevern had sentenced a tired, worn Pelle to a full season in the back of the dungeon he hated so much.

It hadn't mattered to Lord Kevern how broken Pelle's faith in the warlord for not dragging hate into Greyspire had become, Ashclaw thought. It hadn't mattered that Ashclaw had stumbled down the steep dungeon stairs with short legs, the cold edges biting into the back of his knees and his mother's paw firmly wrapped around his smaller one, her other paw steadying Cinder. It hadn't mattered how Ashclaw had squeezed his mother's arm tight with tiny claws and nervously flicked his eyes back and forth between cells, seeing new beaten examples of beasts in each ones, some of which had looked ready to embrace death with sobs of happiness.

The odd, distant screams that had come from the back of the dungeon, the shaky unnerved way his mother had looked over her shoulder and hurried along when certain guards were around, the horrible racking cough Pelle had gotten over halfway through the season that shook his whole body when Ashclaw saw him, the tender but depressed way Aiyana had slipped her paws between the bars to stroke Pelle's face or hold paws with him when allowed— none of it mattered. Not to Lord Kevern.

After a season of staring at his parent through bars, and every hug being cut in half by the feeling of the cold, hard metal beams pressing against his chest, Ashclaw had gotten the pieces of his father back. An' at that point, the cough made sure to shatter him so he could never be put back together again.

Exhaustion and the rank atmosphere of the dungeon had squirmed underneath the already vulnerable Pelle's skin and made way for illness. The coughing fits began to stretch on and on until Ashclaw felt the hateful things lasted longer than his dad's imprisonment, but at that point, it didn't matter any more.

Pelle died half a season later after he had finally gotten out of the dungeon. He hacked up his lungs up to the last. Another half season later, and a grieving Aiyana had contracted the same broken coughs and tremors that had driven her into the ground— literally.

A near twelve-season old Ashclaw was left comforting a faintly coughing, whimpering Cinderfang in their empty room and watching the disease-tainted blankets that had been wrapped around his mother and father being burned in the courtyard. And then and there, as he watched the smoke float off much like it had from his parents' funeral pyre, the marten cub had decided that Lord Kevern could take every damn thing he had ever told them about hope an' '_makin' sure only the right beasts get into Greyspire' _and shove it back down his own throat.

Pelle had been begging for someone in charge to hear him about what happened in the dungeons long before he was a prisoner in one, but for all the help Reina and Lord Kevern ever gave, he might as well have been screaming his lungs raw at an open ice plain. And the only one remaining who knew that was his son.

It had taken a full season of frustrated questioning and cut off conversations to make Ashclaw realize that Cinderfang had mentally blocked every last memory of visiting their father in the dungeon.

She knew what had happened, definitely, Ashclaw thought. But she didn't remember a frostbitten thing about the actual visits or events. It was like a mental brick the thickness of one of Greyspire's walls had been dropped down right between her and the memories, and she pulled a blank face whenever he tried to mention a single one. To her, they didn't exist.

_But still… _

Ashclaw flopped backwards on the bed, suddenly feeling exhausted. Now that the emotional jump was over, he was remembering how badly he needed a nap. Cinderfang raised an eyebrow at him in amusement as she folded up the habit she had gotten out.

"What, did I wear you out 'o somethin'?"

"More than a slave driver; you're just that exhaustin'," Ashclaw said. "But it's alright. I din't need ta use my legs in the next few days anytime soon anyways."

Cinderfang threw the habit on his face.

…_if she doesn't remember, _Ashclaw thought, pushing the habit off his face to peek at her and make an odd face that caused Cinderfang to snigger, _then I can do it for both of us._

Cinderfang poked at his arm before snuggling up against her brother's side to go to sleep, her still slightly damp face resting on Ashclaw's shoulder.

The ache in his heart that had been lurking about for the past five days disappeared.

* * *

A.N: Since a short summary of all the main characters was requested along with the previous list, here it is! I have to apologize for pacing issues in the story and difficulties right now—Ashclaw and Cinderfang are unintentionally causing a lot of problems for me, and Dipper desperately needs screen-time to make the story connection between he and Farflit— but the Greyspire arc is coming to an end. Things should pick up after this lose end is tied off.

ALSO, in case anyone wants to blackmail Farflit, here's some drawings of him as a pudgy little cub and a stupid short antecedent about him that he refuses to awknowledge ever happened (remove the dashes): tiny-url-.-com-/-c5su3vz

—SL

x

_Greyspire Plotline:_

—Ashclaw: slightly overprotective pine marten and older brother of Cinderfang determined to raise her on his own; Pelle & Aiyana Pyrefur's son.

—Cinderfang: naive, sheltered, and sassy younger sister of Ashclaw with a crush on Lord Kevern; Pelle & Aiyana Pyrefur's daughter.

—Vermund: goodhearted close friend and unofficial third member of the small Pyrefur sibling family; an ex-warrior ermine who works in the dungeon.

—Lord Kevern: dignified warlord of Greyspire, a handsome ferret; he's currently destroying his close relationship with Reina over the desire to create a guardian spirit.

—Reina: long-suffering and weary second-in-command of Lord Kevern, a rat with a natural limp; she desperately tries to salvage hope that Kevern can't sink any lower.

x

_Quarry Plotline:_

—Farflit: pragmatic and blunt fox soldier from Mavern with little friends and many enemies; Shaal's executor, Hobb's victim, and estranged nephew of Captain Tilda.

—Laikan: heavily tattooed and foul-mouthed ex-corsair rat; he joined Erskine's mining company to seek out redemption and leave the past behind. Farflit's closest friend.

—Gittem: giant stoat with intelligence inversely proportional to how strong he is; he suffers much verbal abuse from fellow miners but offers kindness to everyone.

—Mellia: older hedgehog and rare woodlander that suffers no fools but has her own problems; she tries to drag out Farflit's emotions and banters constantly with Wringer.

—Wringer: laidback, lazy, unshakable, and mysterious weasel overseer; no one has any idea where he comes from or why he appears to never age. He greatly unsettles Farflit.

—Yang: old companion and soldier fox from the Damonstongue tribe; he has the same skeletons in his closet as Farflit, but after Shaal's death, any empathy has turned to hate.

—Shaal (deceased): young, partially naïve, Damsontongue fox soldier; he was one of the only beasts to ever show Farflit kindness and Yang's favorite protégé. Fed to adders.

x

_Juska Plotline:_

—Dipper: foulmouthed and bold Juskan weasel warrior with a touch of Bloodwrath; he's tired of losing close friends, especially after being forced to kill the ferret Sunstreak.

—Anscom: sly and questionably motivated Juskan fox warrior. Rangar admires him; he and Dipper have a bizarre mutual relationship consisting of respect, liking, and hate.

—Rangar: young stoat warrior and a rising star in the Juskan tribe; he is fiercely determined to find the Taggerung. He is one of the tribe's favorites and Zenrisk's son.

—Slipgale: deadpan snarker and levelheaded Juskan ferret warrior; she is the highly affectionate mate of Sarck and considered Rangar's aunt in lieu of no other family.

—Zenrisk Rath: ruthless but protective leader of the Eastern Rath tribe; he has been pursuing the Taggerung for seasons. Lady Brielle's mate and Rangar's father.

—Atiya Fatewinder: blind, snappy, old vixen; an ex-seer who no longer has sight of any kind and runs through a turbulent relationship with her insane grandson Taike.

—Taike Fatewinder: sociopathic and unfeeling fox seer who smiles constantly and has no fear of death; he is an immensely powerful seer, but his own feelings and hopes are dead.

—The Taggerung, ? (still absent): the yet unnamed and undiscovered Taggerung every Juska is pinning their hopes on and racing to find.


	12. Chapter 11

"_Milord, there's a message for you."_

"_From who?"_

"_Just one of the residents. It's not anythin' important."_

_There was a pause as a scroll was unrolled and scanned over._

"…_Reina, are you snickering at me?"_

"_No, milord. Not at all."_

"_The sender is certainly… enthusiastic… in her attempt to write."_

"_Some of the younger residents admire you, milord. You've kept them safe, an' it's no wonder that their parents have embellished a few tales 'o whatnot about you. It's actually surprisin' this hasn't happened before now."_

"_I was aware of their admiration, but not that it existed in… quite this manner. I suppose I will have to respond to this, in one way or another."_

"_What? Kevern, you don't have to. She's a young, air-headed maid, an' while she means well— beasts her age have a tendency to misread any replies they receive, if you know what I mean."_

"_I'm well aware that she's adolescent enough to misinterpret my reply. I don't intend to give enough her to do that; I won't write back to her, merely give her a mention or acknowledgement. The young know when they are being ignored. They better regard a leader who does not do that."_

"_Milord, this isn't exactly just a letter of the regular kind of respect. Feedin' this fire— it's not a good idea. For her sake an' your convenience."_

"_As I said before, Reina, I am not going to give her enough of a reply to encourage this. The fact that the maid is old enough to have written this letter shows she is probably aware of the futileness involved, and the inappropriateness of any relations if they were to happen— which they won't. It is a fleeting and childish brand of affection; it will be gone soon enough."_

"_Then why reply to her when you know it's just goin' to fade in a short time when her common sense comes around?"_

"_When we ourselves were young, didn't we all have this feeling of admiration towards someone in our lives we could never reach, despite our efforts? Despite how much we wanted them? The very least I can do in this situation is humor a cub who hasn't quite grown out of this stage. She will soon enough."_

"_I see, milord. If you need me to tell her that you've read the scroll, I will."_

_There was a soft pause._

"…_an' yes… yes, we have..."_

* * *

When Reina ended up hesitating outside of Lord Kevern's door again and staring at the red claw marking— something that was happening far, far too often now— she started to question herself how many seasons ago this has started. Before, she had only hesitated out of respect for privacy for Kevern, an' whenever he came to her room for advice or a discussion, he had done the same for her; it was just base respect.

Exactly when that hesitancy had morphed into wariness and Kevern had stopped seeking her out, Reina wasn't sure she wanted to know.

_But you do know why, don't you? _a snide voice whispered in the back of her head.

Reina immediately shoved it back and took a breath to clear her mind. This was getting ridiculous, she thought, eyeing the red claw mark on the door for a second longer. Lord Kevern had given her far over a week to consider where she stood on this… guardian spirit issue of his, and she'd had her mind set after the first four days, for Vulpez's sake. All these excess days were just sleepless, pointless stalling. She needed to go ahead and speak to him.

_You're not the same as that shy little marten who had you deliver the scroll for her,_ Reina chided herself. _You're his second-in-command. Give him your opinion an' tell him where you stand._

_You've already seen the worst that can happen if you disagree._

Each time she and Kevern argued, it was a double-edged sword that cut both of them, and they had learned seasons back that leaving that weapon be was better for their own sanities. It still didn't prevent them from continuing the endless, weary little routine they had established, but it kept them in check.

_Kevern doesn't like to incite any more than I do,_ Reina thought. She straightened her cloak, pulling her staff closer to her. This was going to end the same way every other one of their conflicts had. There was no reason for it change now.

The rat still didn't know why she was bracing herself as she softly knocked on the door and entered.

Unlike last time, Lord Kevern turned to meet her. His fur was smoothed down in a state Reina hadn't seen in it for a long time— he wasn't quietly ruffled or irritated about something— and his red cloak was immaculately pinned and hanging over his shoulders. There was none of the pacing and unease he had greeted her with last . His insomnia had left him alone for the moment and he had gotten some rest; he needed it.

It was just unfortunate that the insomnia had seen fit to jump over to the same rat that was congratulating Kevern on losing it.

"Reina," he said. "It is good you are here; I needed to speak to you."

"An' I needed to do the same with you," Reina said. She shut the door behind her, making sure she heard the click. It was an action out of sheer habit to make sure no passers-by could overhear them. There would be some unfortunate talk floatin' around Greyspire if they did. "Unfortunately, milord, we couldn't recapture the mousemaid that escaped, but she's unlikely to cause problems."

"The scouts failed to find her?" Lord Kevern said.

"Yes, milord," Reina said. She gripped her staff tighter. Her legs were aching from exhaustion, and the lack of sleep in the past few days was starting to wear her down. The rat still refused to take the chair by the smoldering fireplace. You needed to be standing while discussing something with Kevern. "None of them found any of her tracks. But I don't think she's going to stay up north an' make problems. Her travelin' bag an' other possessions that the guards went through showed that she was from somewhere in Mossflower. By now, she's headed south again, assumin' she hasn't frozen."

"I will take from you that she is not going to cause any difficulties," Lord Kevern said, crossing his arms. "However, I will expect the guards not to let this occur again. There were enough problems the last time a group of woodlanders attempted to interfere in Greyspire and retrieve backup. I will have to have a conversation with those in the dungeon, particularly the guard who allowed this to happen."

"I'll inform them that you're goin' to pay a visit later," Reina said.

There was a pause after they had finished speaking. The crisp light that shone through Kevern's window didn't seem to reach the rest of the room, and it was steadily darkening with the encroaching hailstorm clouds. Only a low ebb of orange light from the fireplace made the edges of Reina's staff and her and Kevern's cloaks glow.

Reina could already feel a cold pit forming inside her, though it was nothing surprising by this point. This was one of those silences that didn't bode well— but seein' how the brief conversation had gone when she had delivered the marten maid's scroll to Kevern, perhaps it wouldn't leave them as worn as usual.

Kevern observed Reina's face, seeing the traces of sleeplessness and tired set of her jaw that she more often saw in him. For moment, the ferret hesitated while his eyes were still on her face— his mouth opened slightly with unsaid words, and his paws and arms loosened and hovered as if he wanted to reach out— but an instant later, Lord Kevern's fingers dug into his arms as he tightly crossed them again, and the flat mask of a warlord came back over his face. Reina had only seen a glimpse of the beast beneath it before he was already hiding himself away again.

The last visit Reina had paid to him had pulled far too much of his older self back to the surface when that wasn't an option anymore. An' Kever— _Lord _Kevern knew to stop when something was long gone.

_An' it's not an option for you, either,_ Reina thought. She crushed the hopeful perk inside her that just didn't know how to fade and forced back the bit of nostalgia hampering their conversation. The rat stood up straighter, making her expression into the cold and calm visage of a second command. This was a conversation about the betterment of Greyspire; she would say her piece and get out. The best advisors were efficient and to the point. They were not blinded by old memories.

If Lord Kevern saw Reina's change in posturing and attitude, he said nothing. Reina rolled her staff over in her fingers as she looked up to meet the ferret's eyes.

"I came to give you my reply for what we talked about last time."

"And that would be?" Lord Kevern said.

He sounded as calm and unconcerned as if they were discussing where to move some of the surplus firewood they had. Of course he would, Reina thought bitterly. He already knew her answer. When didn't he?

"…milord, I believe you already know my reply," Reina said.

"I would still like to hear it," Lord Kevern said, lifting one paw beseechingly.

The few second silence that separated their words was colder than Greyspire's floors in the winter.

"Lord Kevern, this guardian spirit idea of yours is foolishness," Reina said. She kept her eyes focused on the warlord's face, refusing to let him see the reassuring breath she'd sucked in before she began talking. Reina squeezed her fingers around her staff for support to the point where they hurt as she watched the ferret's expression. No going back now. "It seems more likely to backfire instead of make anythin' worthy, an' we have no idea where to start. By the end of the day, someone is goin' to hate us, an' that's not baggage we need. I have also no experience in makin' ghosts whatsoever, so I'll be of little help," Reina added, unable to keep the chilly dryness out of her voice. "…Kevern, back out while you can. Do you still intend to do this?"

"In case you have forgotten, Reina, we are already hated," Kevern said. His voice was abnormally calm and taciturn. Every word was a tiny ice splinter being dropped on the floor. "Our species ensures that quite well, if what we've done to survive hasn't. Do you believe making one more effort to strengthen ourselves will change that?"

"Milord, you're not answerin' me," Reina said. _Of course,_ she thought, twisting her staff in her paws as she clenched the wood, _Kevern would walk around the edges._ Kevern would peel up every fact but the one she needed him to talk to her about first and then shut her down with minimum effort, because he knew just how to work these arguments, didn't he?

_Knows just how to work YOU, _the voice in her head whispered, rasping and sneakily biting at her. _And what argument? Argument means there's two beasts involved; do you think he hears you? Because only one of you has been walking away from these little beat-downs hurting and unheard, and it's not Kevern._

_Shut up, _Reina told it, quashing the rising squirm in her chest. Kevern took that moment that continue his oddly calm speaking, though there was something shifting behind his mask Reina couldn't place.

"Actually, Reina, I am answering you," Lord Kevern said. The dim firelight brought out the edges of an unnatural glow in his eyes and the cloak clasp around his neck. "You have a point in saying that we do not know exactly where to start. Fair enough. But how can we learn unless we try? Are we going to stand back and allow this chance to slip between our fingers? We were told the same thing when we moved to conquer Icebloom, Reina," Kevern said, tone growing lower with urgency as he leaned towards Reina. She would have had trouble swallowing the refusal in her throat when saw that fiery, determined look in his eyes that had drove her to abandon Moklafrist and her father for him, but its power over her had stumbled seasons ago. "They said we could not do it, because it had not been attempted before and we appeared weak. They were wrong— about the both of us. And we could prove them wrong once more. No one in Greyspire would ever be without guidance or comfort of some kind, despite who remains in control."

_The chance is goin' to slip between your fingers, not OURS._

"A heir would take care of that fine, an' without killin' someone," Reina said, stepping back to distance herself from Kevern again. He almost blinked before straightening up, and from the look that flashed across his face, her reaction wasn't what he had had wanted… or, for a split second, what he had expected.

"Heirs grow disillusioned and flawed over the years," Kevern said. His expression had returned to its stoic mask, though from the set of his mouth and the tiniest furrowing of his eyebrows, something was slipping.

"Heirs don't do that if they have proper guidance 'o good leaders they can't grow disillusioned with," Reina replied. Despite the distance she had put between them, she was slowly starting to close it as her infuriation rose at the stubborn _look_ on Kevern's face and the tone of his last words, and it was getting harder to keep her face expressionless.

"Even if they do not, their own heirs may, and I have no intention of letting Greyspire fall hundreds of seasons after my death," Kevern said, more snap in his words. It was growing harder for him to keep still. "The presence of a spirit will convince them that Greyspire is a special place, even more than other strongholds, and the next generations will hold tighter to it. They are less likely to lose their homes—"

"If you have to resort to a ghost to keep beasts glued to Greyspire, Kevern, then there's somethin' wrong," Reina snapped. She glared at him as she drew closer, and abruptly, she and Kevern were staring at each other and tearing past comfort zones that they had left well alone for a long time. "Something isn't that special about it if you're goin' there, or _maybe, _somebeasts might be a bit off put by the dungeon—"

"You will _not _bring this discussion up again, and you will _not _speak of Pelle Pyrefur," Kevern said in a low voice, almost dropping to a growl. Something fiercely cracked in his face at the mention of Pelle, and Reina glimpsed a bared fang before he had wrangled him expression down. She realized her fur was beginning to prickle and her fingers were faintly quivering.

"Well? What, Kevern?" Reina whispered, beginning to stand on her tiptoes as she glared at him. Her claws were digging into her staff's wood hard enough to splinter it. "Does realizin' you've made a ghost ahead of time already make you more uncomfortable? Are we goin' to end up _clingin' _to each other like we did last time an' regrettin' the rightful punishment an' judgement we had to give?"

Reina grated bitterly over 'clinging' with a kind of vicious, hurt resentment. What had happened then was something that had barely constituted as comfort to each other compared to the past, but now— if anything so much as resembling the bit of support they had given each other then appeared now, if would be a miracle spat straight out of Hellgates.

Judging by the way every inch of fur down his spine beneath his cloak stood on end, Kevern had heard her tone just fine.

"I believe you were incorrect earlier, Reina," he said, ignoring her previous words with a heated face. Kevern's eyes lit up icily, warping the determined and warm fierce look he had possessed in them before. "You do have experience making ghosts. Your father could attest to that. It seems we are both experienced."

Reina's face burned as she felt the stab to her chest. Several layers of memories and trust ripped through like paper.

"I don't suggest you forget what that was for, Kevern," Reina said, crushing down the cut strings and her internal voice laughing resentfully as something crunched in her_._ "It was in order to guarantee the safety of as many of our beasts we could save— to keep _them _from becomin' ghosts," she growled, giving him a significant look.

"And this IS to guarantee their safety!" Lord Kevern burst out, gesturing his claws in the space between them. "Neither of us are going to remain around forever to guide them, and it would take _one_ misstep in the future to destroy what has been built here! If there is going to be any extra way possible to protect them, I intend to do it—"

"What, like how you protected your family an' home village from the woodlanders, Redtalon?" Reina said.

She had spoken before she even felt the contemptuous words building up in her throat.

Kevern froze completely. The look he gave her would have been completely murderous— if weren't for the surprise and raw amount of hurt in his expression... and betrayal.

_That was it, _Reina thought numbly. She couldn't even feel a single speck of hollow, vindictive triumph floating in her. The pain over the jab about her father didn't feel absolved or avenged.

She had crossed the line. That had been a kick below the belt as low and hard as possible. The look on Kevern's face when she had called him 'Redtalon,' in the same spiteful, condescending tone Moklafrist had used when they'd found the ferret burned and beaten in the ruins left of his home that he had returned to—

"No, Reina, not in that manner," Kevern said as he finally spoke up in a raw, harsh voice that was magnified in the closed room. His teeth were clenched, and Reina could just see the amount of spiteful things being bitten back. "But in another. I am going through with the guardian spirit; you are dismissed. Get out of my sight_._"

Reina bristled. _What?!_ She had already given her his opinion, openly advised him against it, and he was going to go against her will and push it through anyway? He had known what she was going to say!

"I told you, this isn't somethin' that should be done!" Reina barked, lurching forward and thumping her staff against the floor. The taller ferret glared down at her as she came closer to him, refusing to back off with almost bared teeth. Something was shattering. "You can't just ignore this; you can't make a damn guardian ghost out of your own will! Kevern, this is _insane_—"

In one movement, Lord Kevern backhanded away Reina's paw that had been getting close to touching his chest and wrenched her away from him. The rat's staff hit the floor with a clatter. It went rolling over the stone.

"That's _Lord _Kevern to you, _advisor_," Kevern said coldly. His claws flexed as he slowly lowered his paw. There was dead silence.

He could have backhanded Reina in the face or stabbed her in the heart and gotten the same point across.

All Reina could do was stare at him from where she had been shoved a few steps away.

It was over. They had crossed all of their lines and broken everything remaining, and they were already sinking back beneath what they had left of their masks. There was nothing more to be said.

"…I'll keep that in mind, milord," Reina said. She was amazed at how perfectly flat and cold her voice was. Her face matched.

"See that you do," Lord Kevern replied. His expression was the same as hers. All heat and firelight was drained out of the room.

"Are you goin' to go through with the guardian spirit plan?"

"I have improved ideas on how to create one now. Yes."

The remaining bit of fury that could crack through Reina's quivering control flared up.

"Lord Kevern, I _said_—"

"I know what you said, and I need to hear no more from my advisor," Lord Kevern said bluntly. He stared Reina down. "You will aid me in finding a suitable volunteer, or I will do it myself. I have done plenty without you," Lord Kevern said. Reina could see his neatly clasped pin hanging at his collarbone. There wasn't a thing out of order. "This will be no different."

A long, icy pause punctuated his words. Reina finally lowered her head in a respectful nod. She said nothing.

Reina limped over to her fallen staff to retrieve it. Lord Kevern had made no effort to pick it up for her. The rat automatically straightened her cloak after she had stood up from her awkward kneel. The warlord was staring at her as she did. With her staff, Reina went to the door with all the dignity and poise of an unhindered second-in-command.

"…I believe I'll show myself out now, since I've been dismissed," Reina said, looking back at him. "Lord Kevern."

The ferret gave a dip of his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, then. Advisor."

Reina left the room and shut the door behind her, and in her last glimpse, she couldn't tell whether Lord Kevern had turned around with shaking shoulders to look at the window or to bury his face in his paws. It didn't matter.

Reina managed to close the door and get several strides away before her quivering back thudded against the wall and her legs threatened to fold out from under her.

The rat realized her chest was heaving, and she fumbled to place all her weight on her staff and keep from falling. Her eyes burned; something hot poured down her face. Reina forced out a few more spluttered gasps through the stabbing pain in her chest and touched her face with her free paw before she realized she was crying.

She pulled her fingers away and stared at the glimmer of tears on her fingers. Silent streams of them kept rolling down her face. She was cryin'— Vulpez, she was actually _cryin'._ When was the last time this had happened? She couldn't even put a guess to that as the world and her memories blurred beneath a curtain of water.

Reina struggled to crunch the shattered pieces of herself together into something manageable. She didn't know if Kevern could hear her or not. He probably couldn't. The rat gave a low and strangled exhale as she forced herself to shove off the wall and stand on her feet. She began wiping at her face with her paw and clumsily tried to stop her tears, swallowing down anything that resembled a whimper.

_If anyone passes by up here and sees me in this shape,_ Reina thought, wiping her eyes, _it won't bode well._ The leaders of Greyspire had a reputation to maintain— and it didn't matter if the entire assembly of the abbey residents came marching upstairs; she wasn't going back in Lord Kevern's room to hide. Not over her dead body.

Not Kevern. _Lord _Kevern.

A surge of bitter, angry pain welled up inside Reina, and she could practically taste the foulness of the emotions on her tongue. Hellgates, half of the rage and animosity wasn't even directed at Lord Kevern— it was directed at _her._

Did she really believe things were going to change? That they were going to get any better? She and Kevern had been falling apart since the first season when she had stomped out of his room after an irritated quarrel that had found no resolution, and things had only deepened and festered from there. They had been starting to come undone beneath stress before the assault on Icebloom— but Greyspire had ripped everything apart instead of keep it together, Reina thought, when it felt like it should have put stitches in the wound.

_Look what you did, _the voice inside her head spat, thinner and more frail than usual. _You let yourself get emotional— you let yourself hope that, for one minute, he was actually still buried in there, an' all because he smiled once an' almost laughed during that one few minute visit you made to deliver a scroll. Do you think that erases the past six seasons?_

_NO, _Reina snarled back in her head— trying to ignore even more of the pain and anger— _I didn't, so go to Hellgates!_

And she hadn't.

That realization made Reina's tears slow and her mouth twist up in half of a hollow, warped smile. So she really hadn't possessed the hope that Kevern would change back and come to his senses after all. It had only been a last bit of pretending. Her head had already figured out where things were going and where they would end, and here she was, shaking and half-broken outside the Greyspire warlord's room.

The young rat from ten or even six seasons ago would have been devastated entirely if this had happened, and so would have the young ferret she had pledged herself to. The present-time rat knew better and didn't care enough any longer for that to occur. So did the present-time ferret.

Did Lord Kevern only want a second-in-command? _Fine,_ Reina thought, her face hardening as she steadied herself and cauterized her wounds. She would give him a second-in-command, and nothing else. She was finished. Fifteen seasons of her life were suddenly wasted and rotting useless scraps of reminiscence that had only kept her pursuing the ghost of someone who had died a long, long time ago, and there was nothing she could do to reclaim them.

Her father had done the same for Moklafrist even after the leader had began to warp into the ruthless beast that would force a young, fierce ferret named Kevern Redtalon to rise up and save them. And he had been deluding himself as to what was happening until the very end, Reina thought. Like father, like daughter.

And spirits help her, though she had no more solid hope, she couldn't make herself leave Greyspire… or what remained of Lord Kevern. If she did, it would throw the rest of the peaceful, unaware inhabitants in a panic that they didn't deserve, and the abbey would begin to flounder. No matter what she felt, she was a key piece in Greyspire and all the beasts around it, and she was too tightly woven into the threads of past and present to leave.

Reina reached up and stroked the faintly damp line down her face. Her father had said as much when having a screaming match with her about why he couldn't abandon Moklafrist's side. Oh, the irony.

_I really AM just like him._

Reina finally grabbed her staff and began to trudge down the hall. She looked composed enough to travel through Greyspire now. Her eyes and limbs were heavy, something deep in her was aching and caving in, and she just wanted to close herself up in her room until she was needed again, which meant she would only a few hours of rest. Someone would call on her for one thing or another.

She didn't even make it halfway across the next floor before a familiar brown face and a wide pair of hazel and brown eyes accosted her. Reina had to step back as a fluffy and pleased-looking— if a bit hesitant— marten appeared out of the nearest doorway.

"Reina!" she peeped, her huge habit sleeves drooping around her skinny wrists. Reina could her feel her stomach sinking as she felt the bright, happy gaze focus on her. Someone was radiating sunbeams today.

"Hello, Cinderfang," Reina said, trying to put on her pleasant conversation face. She couldn't do it. The rat ended up taking a neutral expression.

When the pine marten wasn't prompted any further, she squirmed. Reina could see a shy shuffling of her limbs beneath her robes. Cinderfang clasped her paws together and tucked her head against her neck for moment before she forced herself to look up at Reina. The rat could see her mentally gnawing away at the shyness.

_Don't tell me it's another scroll,_ Reina thought, her heart plummeting. As sweet as the adolescent marten and her inability to look face-to-face with her… _object of childish affection _was, the rat had no intentions of making a delivery for her any time soon.

Right on cue, Cinderfang piped up.

"Reina, would you… um… mind takin' somethin' to Lord Kevern for me?"

The pine marten seemed to almost splutter on her last words, but her sheer stubbornness kept her from doing so. Reina had to struggle against the sour face threatening to emerge when Cinderfang shook a scroll out of sleeve with all the air of a magician. Judging by the contents of the last scroll, Reina could guess that this one was scrawled with the same amount of dizzy, admiring compliments that didn't _quite _manage to mask the other kind of admiration behind them.

"I'm sorry, Cinderfang, but I just finished talkin' to him," Reina lied between her teeth. That had been no _talk._ "We're both a little busy right now, so I think it would be best to leave him alone."

"Oh. Er, alright," Cinderfang said, her face falling. She didn't remain down for long. Her bright eyes immediately widened and brightened again with something so damn _happy_ it lit Reina up inside and made her feel all the ugly, scorched burns she had within instead of whatever Cinderfang did. "But you kin keep a hold of it for me an' give it to him later, right? I kin't come back today. I'm goin' to go help Ashclaw cheer up Kike," Cinderfang explained cheerfully, her sass returning once the subject of Lord Kevern had passed. She rolled her eyes at the thought of her other brother and whatever he had done. "He was a snotface to him when he shouldn't have been, so we have ta go apologize. Well, at least Ash does; I gotta go make sure Kike doesn't fall asleep in the middle of it 'o anythin'."

At that moment, Cinderfang smiled, her enthusiasm bubbling over, and Reina realized why it had taken her so long to discover Cinderfang was part of the Pyrefur family: she _shined._

Pelle had been a good beast, yes, but he had never been an optimist, not earlier in life and especially not in the beaten, downtrodden stages Reina had beheld him in. Aiyana had been sweet and caring, filled with all the tenderness of a soft blanket brushing across someone's face, but there had been an inescapable fragility and melancholy behind her. She knew of the world's cruelties and broken promises all too well.

An' Ashclaw— well, Reina didn't know Ashclaw except from bad scattered memories of Pelle's imprisonment sentence and glimpses of him around Greyspire, but she had seen his expressions and actions all too clearly reflect that downtrodden 'grew-up-too-soon' element of his parents. He was a son of the Pyrefur line, alright.

Then there was Cinderfang, who bounced around life an' didn't have a bloody sad streak in her. She had… unbroken and whole hope.

_That's it,_ Reina thought, realizing why she felt so cracked when Cinderfang smiled. _That's what it is. _She had hope, kindness, and trust the rat hadn't felt for seasons, if the second-in-command had ever had that kind of hope to begin with. It was a rarity in the harsh northlands, especially when the three things were combined.

Almost ethereal, really.

Reina froze and locked up inside when the thought hit her.

"Reina?" Cinderfang chirped, raising an eyebrow in curiosity at her. Reina shook away the tendrils of the idea strangling her.

_Oh, Vulpez._

"Yes, Cinderfang? I'm sorry; I was distracted for a moment. But I can hold onto your scroll for you," Reina said.

_No. No._

Cinderfang beamed. The martenmaid immediately passed over the simple tied scroll. "Thanks, Reina! I mean, I wanted ta give ta him myself when he comes ta talk ta the class this evenin', but, er…" Cinderfang went into a stifled coughing fit, her fur suddenly fluffing. "Never mind. Anyway, thanks!"

_There is no way Kevern is goin' to miss this._

Reina held the painstakingly written scroll in her paw. She felt the weight of the words that had been labored on for hours in ink to get them in presentable shape, and the careful choosing of words and fumbled cross-outs of mistakes.

For a moment, the rat wanted to rip the scroll straight in half and throw it down the stairwell so Cinderfang would never write to the warlord again.

Instead, like an obedient fool, she took it and pocketed it.

"I'll make sure to give it to him," Reina said heavily.

Cinderfang smiled again. The hope and devotion shone out like a beacon.

"Thank you, Reina!"

When Reina had decided to change sides, she had pledged herself to Kevern Redtalon and vowed to follow him straight into Hellgates if necessary. Despite the turbulence and weariness, she had not broken that pledge yet.

_Vulpez._

"You're welcome."

_I'm goin' to Hellgates now._


	13. Children of Greyspire: Part I

"Ever worry that it might be ruined

And does it make you want to cry?

When you're out there, doing what you're doing

Or are you just getting by?

Tell me, are you just getting by, by, by?...

—P!nk, _Try_

* * *

_The ice was still spread in crunchy layers across the tundra, Moklafrist's whole group was struggling to keep their ragged tents pinned to the ground and from being battered and torn away as scraps in the wind, the sun had sunken beneath the horizon and mountains and died, and Reina had just found Kevern Redtalon._

"_Hey," she said quietly, limping over to sit next to the ferret on the rocky outcropping he had set himself on. Kevern said nothing. Reina wouldn't have been able to see the look on his face thanks to the torn bandages across the side of his brow anyway._

"…_hello, Reina," he said finally. His voice was slightly hoarse. Molkafrist hadn't laid off his throat when he had been punished. _

_Reina had never seen Kevern's throat under anybeast's foot before. Nor had she seen him forced to beg. But, Reina thought, her head ringing as she remembered the screaming match between her and her father last night, there was a first time for everything._

_The rat hesitated before her eyes went to the jagged line of stitches and burns across Kevern's shoulder. The fur had burned and crisped, and the cold was biting at the little edges of metal stitches clumsily poking from his skin. Kevern refused to wear a single cloak or coat over it— or anywhere on his bruised body. He was merely sitting out on the edge of a rocky cliff outcropping in nothing but pants and bandages, watching the world and stars burn and letting himself freeze._

"_You need to wear somethin'," Reina said quietly. Kevern breathed out, frost clinging to his whiskers and a puff of white drifting from his mouth. He said nothing. His eyes never moved from the sky._

"…_I do not need anything."_

_There was a long silence between the two. Reina raised her head to look at the stars alongside him._

"_Polaris?"_

"_To the left," Kevern said._

"_Broken adder's back?"_

"_Below it."_

"_Ermine's claw… the red talon?"_

_Reina's eyes drifted to Kevern. He didn't meet them._

"_I cannot find it."_

_At the sound of his low words and the crack in them, Reina finally reached out and grabbed his shoulder, making sure not to touch his burns._

"_Kevern, you tried—"_

"_Trying was not ENOUGH, Reina, trying did not SAVE them!" Kevern snarled. Reina watched from beside him as the ferret gestured violently at the sky, breathing harder, but not yet not seeing anything beyond the scenes that were repeating within his head. "How am I supposed to believe that was worth anything— that __**I**__ am worth anything— when they are not HERE with me? When I did not manage to save a single one?"_

"_Kevern, don't go down that route," Reina said, reaching out and hovering her paw over his wrist. "You defied Moklafrist an' went after your family an' home anyway; that was worth somethin', no matter how you see it. We can't… we can't save everyone, but Vulpez, you tried. You tried harder than anyone I've ever seen and almost made it. It's worth somethin'," Reina said, her expression momentarily drawing in on herself in old haunted memories. "You got the chance."_

"_I received the chance and I failed them," Kevern spat, but some of his outward ire had faded when he heard the tone in Reina's voice. He looked at her face and softened a bit further, though his shoulders and clenched fists were still quietly shaking. "I do not… I do not know what I intended to do when I found them. Moklafrist is already leading us towards death and failing on his own; I would have dragged my family into this and gotten them killed or slowly freezing to death anyway," Kevern said bitterly. "The woodlanders ended suffering that would have lasted seasons before it started."_

_The ferret drew in a ragged breath, still shaking, and he finally closed his eyes and lowered his face from looking at the stars. Reina silently let her fingers drift down and touch on his wrist. Kevern tensed for a moment, but when he felt the warmth and realized what was brushing against him, it took him only a second to jerk his wrist out from under Reina's touch and grab her paw. He squeezed her fingers— hard. Reina could feel all the callouses and rough patches across his paw rubbing against hers. She squeezed back._

"…_I am assuming Moklafrist or Redburn want me executed or further punished tomorrow for defiance?" Kevern said, speaking up when he finally found his voice again. Reina brushed a scrape across the back of his paw with her thumb._

"_No," she said, remembering the acidic screaming match between her and her father and her staff being ripped from her paws and thrown across the tent. "I talked to Redburn. You don't have to worry about any further punishment. He an' Moklafrist are lettin' you off, for now."_

_Kevern looked up sharply at the odd tone to Reina's voice, but she didn't meet his eyes, continuing to stare down at their linked paws._

"_However," she continued, "you need to be careful. They're not goin' to give you any more second chances after this. If you cross the line now, you're done."_

"…_Reina, what happened?" Kevern blinked, looking down as he realized Reina was missing something. "Where is your staff?"_

"_My father an' I had an, ah, long discussion about that," Reina said, softly thumbing at Kevern's scrape again before looking up. "Mainly, about the fact that usin' 'un emphasizes me bein' a weak cripple, an' that my staff ended up goin' out the door. We also had nice long talk about pardonin' you an' leavin' you alive. But he said plenty that he didn't mean after the 'cripple' point, so I didn't take it to heart 'o anythin'."_

"_And what else did he happen to say that he didn't mean?" Kevern said, forcing his voice to be far, far too calm._

"_The fact that I'm not supposed to be within two leagues of you while you live, 'o so much as thinkin' of speakin' to you." Reina shrugged one shoulder, smiling wanly. "But seein' before then is the time where he started gettin' a bit nonsensical, I consider it among the thin's he said that he didn't mean."_

"…_you are not a cripple," Kevern said quietly. He straightened up more, eyes fierce, and Reina felt him grip her paw harder for a moment. "I am sorry to disappoint your father farther, but I think I will be giving you another staff."_

"_You can try," Reina said. "But you might not want to put much effort into that. I can't make any promises it's not goin' to end up broken… just so you know."_

"_Then I'll make another after that," Kevern said. "I have time and a dagger. It is the one thing I can do." He paused, trying to get his words together, and Reina could see him withdrawing into himself and his wounds and burns. "But there is far more that I could be accomplishing against Moklafrist," Kevern muttered. Reina's fur rose at the look in his eyes and the danger in his voice._

"_Kevern, you're injured, an' you barely survived this confrontation," she warned, releasing his paw and gesturing at his shoulder. "If you challenge him now—"_

"_It won't be now, Reina, but it is going to be soon," Kevern said. He clenched his fists, staring angrily out into night sky. "I am tired of this; I am tired of losing everyone I could be protecting and letting them get trampled and dying slowly. Moklafrist and Redburn promised to keep us safe and find us homes before we hit the mountains, but nothing is changing! We're dying; we're ALL dying and neither of them seem to care—"_

"_You're talkin' about my father, Kevern," Reina growled._

"_I— damnit, Reina, I know I am, but who else am I supposed to talk about?!" Kevern exploded. "He and Moklafrist are the reason half the cubs are gone, why we are starting to starve, and why the woodlanders are still getting their way and turning us aside while they laugh: we are supposed to believe things are getting better, but how can we do that when they are only going worse? They are sacrifices in all the wrong places that get us nowhere; Reina, you have to see this happening," Kevern pleaded, his voice getting softer, and Reina pointedly stared at the snow-slicked rocks below them instead of looking back._

"…_I may have," Reina said. "But what I am supposed to do? Things have always gone up an' down this way. We just have to wait it out again. That's all. It's not goin' to stay like this forever."_

"_I know." Kevern quieted, some of his aggression vanishing, but there was still a glint of determination in his face. He looked skyward at the spirals of stars. "Moklafrist has told me that I am pathetic and unable to change our fates— but they say that it is the darkest before dawn. Lately, I have had trouble believing that, but… I intend to prove him wrong. And when the morning arrives, there will be nothing he can do about it," Kevern said fiercely, his eyes matching the fire of the points of light hanging above them. Reina shivered for a moment when she caught sight of someone else yet unborn in his face._

_Feeling her movement, Kevern hesitated, turning to look at her. He didn't seem quite as intense and self-sufficient as before._

"_Stay up with me?" he asked._

_Reina saw the crisp night sky on her left, filled with bright stars and drifting snowflakes in the harsh wind further up, and on her right, there was Kevern Redtalon, an injured and burnt up ferret with a stained bandage over half his face and one paw tentatively held up as he looked at her if he didn't know what to do. Some of the cold wind sucked the breath out of Reina's mouth._

"_Sure," she said._

_Kevern looked immensely relieved before he scooted over, and Reina drew closer to get a better view of the stars._

_And so a lonely, cripple-legged rat and abandoned, hurt ferret sat on top of the jagged black snow-capped boulders, drawing a bit closer for body heat when the night got even darker and the temperature dropped, and they watched the sky together until the dawn arrived._

* * *

Cinderfang was pretty sure her heart was about to explode. But that was the same thing she'd been thinkin' five minutes ago, an' ten minutes ago, an' fifteen minutes ago, an' the ten before that.

The last thing she had expected was to meet with Lord Kevern.

The pine marten tried to keep from hyperventilating in her chair. Was she dreaming this? No, she didn't think she was dreaming this; she didn't feel nervous and skitter-y and _absolutely bloody terrified_ in her dreams. It was amazing, she thought. All of her fur stood on end as some footsteps passed outside the door, and Cinderfang locked up more thoroughly than a frozen mouse.

When the footsteps passed and it became evident that no, it wasn't Lord Kevern arriving to their meeting, Cinderfang blinked and realized that she was half-standing out of her chair and her claws were sinking into the armrests. Face burning, she sat back down again, trying to make herself comfortable and her fur lie down. She, er, might've been a little early.

_Oh Vulpez, what if I do that in front of Lord Kevern?_ Cinderfang thought, and her mind broke. He would never, _ever _forget it, and she would be embarrassed for the rest of her life, and everything would be awful, and she would have messed up THE most important meeting in her whole existence. Then she would melt out of her chair an' die. The end.

Cinderfang tried to swallow her happy nervousness and look proper the way Ashclaw kept gently nudging her to do so. Reina had told her it was up to her to come, she reminded herself. She didn't have to, but she was here because Lord Kevern had something special to talk to her about after the class lecture— because he thought _she _was special. If she had the power to choose to meet the most amazing beast in Greyspire on her own, then she had the power to control herself while speaking to him.

Reina— who had looked rather tired and just a bit pushed around— had approached Cinderfang while the marten was on the way back from a game of catch-the-math-book-an'-gush-about-Lord-Kevern with Ivarr. She had told Cinderfang that Lord Kevern would like to meet with her in one of Greyspire's study rooms, if she would like to meet with him. Cinderfang had almost exploded out of her fur when she realized the rat wasn't joking, even though Reina was never mean enough to joke about somethin' like that.

"_Cinderfang,"_ she had said, trying to lean down and empathetically look the martenmaid in the eyes while the latter had been having a squealing and giggling fit, _"you don't have to go. This is completely voluntary, an' you don't have to go. Lord Kevern would understand if you didn't. You can leave at any moment, alright? No one is forcin' you to go—"_

"_Are you jokin', Reina?! Of course I want ta go! I get ta talk ta Kevern! LORD KEVERN!" _Cinderfand had given another miniature squeal and laughed before throwing her arms around Reina and hugging her. The rat had locked up. _"Thank you thank you thank you—"_

Reina had ended up hugging Cinderfang back and smiling at her. _But she held on just a little too long and tight, _Cinderfang thought. The marten frowned slightly. That had been awkward. Reina needed a break off or somethin'; she was starting to get a little sad.

Cinderfang didn't get much longer to consider Reina's attitude, as there was a soft knock on the door. Cinder blinked as it opened. A regal, broad-shouldered ferret everybeast in Greyspire was familiar with stood in the entrance, his red cloak and golden clasp included.

Cinderfang nearly sank into her chair out of mortification with eyes as wide as saucers.

"Lord Kevern!" she squeaked out.

Lord Kevern— seeing her situated in the chair and currently too dazed to get up and bow or curtsey or _somethin'_— gave her a nod of acknowledgement. He paused before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"Cinderfang Pyrefur, I presume? I am glad to meet you."

He gave a slight bow.

Cinderfang almost hyperventilated. Again.

* * *

After they had gotten introductions aside, and Cinderfang had managed to swallow half the blocks in the back of her throat that kept her from speaking, Lord Kevern had settled in one of the chairs opposite from her and they had managed to start a conversation. Whatever the warlord wanted to meet her about, Cinderfang still wasn't sure, but he had urged her to talk about her family for some reason. He'd said somethin' about gettin' to know her better— a statement that had made Cinderfang's heart flutter in her chest.

Which was why she was currently pouring a stream of words out about Ashclaw with no signs of stopping.

"—an' he'd really like ta learn an' all, but he keeps workin' ta make it up for the both of us," Cinderfang explained, her paws resting primly in her lap. She was afraid they would be fidgeting and twitching like mad if she had them elsewhere. "It… tires him out, sometimes."

"Some leeway is allowed for those with family members who are taking lessons," Lord Kevern said. Cinderfang tried not to stare at him when he spoke. But Vulpez, he had a nice voice… an' a nice face. An' everything, really. The marten was suddenly struggling to keep her fluffed fur down and eyes anywhere but on Lord Kevern. She settled for focusing on his cloak clasp. "Your brother should not have to work that frequently; have you told him so?"

"Urgh, all the time!" Cinderfang said, throwing her paws up as she remembered Ashclaw's exhausted collapse on the bed. Past irritation overrode her current shyness. "I keep tellin' him he needs ta relax, an' that I kin take care of myself some an' that he doesn't need ta work so hard, but he never listens. I mean, I try ta go over my lessons with him sometimes because I bloody _know _he wants to read— it's all over his face— but sometimes he's too tired ta pay attention, 'o worried about somethin'."

Cinderfang blew out an exasperated sigh, her eyes softening and drifting when she thought of Ashclaw wincing and rubbing at his blisters and callouses.

"I just wish he'd take better care of himself, that's all. Not everythin' is about me, an' I don't want ta see him hurtin' like dad was…"

Cinderfang remembered more than one time where Ashclaw had sat behind her and tried to read over her shoulder, either with his head resting on top of hers or their ears squashed together in one way or another. She would keep reading and reading— straining to sound out everything just right so he could learn it, just like her— and then halfway through, Cinderfang would realize that the heavy weight on her head or shoulders was her sleeping brother.

He tried hard, but he was worse than Kike after a long workday_. At least Kike doesn't get awful dark circles under his eyes and move like the walkin' dead,_ Cinderfang thought.

Suddenly, Cinderfang realized that she had gone off a tangent with Lord Kevern and had been running her mouth, and now the ferret was looking at her oddly. She swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

"But— but I'm just talkin' too much now," Cinderfang said, and she could hear her voice climbing a few octaves. "Ashclaw's alright; I just have ta make him get more sleep, that's all. I t-think Reina needs more sleep too, but that's not really important; what-did-you-want-to-talk-to-me-about?"

By the end of her outburst, Cinderfang felt like burying her face in her paws and crawling ashamedly out the door. _Oh, Vulpez._ There went her composure.

It only got worse for a second when she mentioned Reina, and a different odd look crossed Lord Kevern's face.

"You… spoke to her earlier?"

"Well, yes, Lord," Cinderfang said, not noticing the look on Lord Kevern's face or the underlying quality to his voice. "She's the one who told me ta come meet you. I think she's a bit tired from runnin' around Greyspire all day, but that's kinda not her 'o your fault; every'un wants her."

"Indeed they do," Lord Kevern said. Something in the ferret's throat constricted for a moment before it disappeared. "I will make sure to tell her to get more rest in the future," he said, clearing his throat and partially recovering. "As it is, adviso— Reina and I have just had a few long meetings concerning the way Greyspire is run, and we are both slightly weary from the discussions. Right now, I believe she needs to be left alone."

Something in Lord Kevern's face and voice reminded Cinderfang of her mom dressing her and ushering her out the door to go play with Ivarr with a strained smile and an odd look in her eyes because _'your father is tired, Cinder, he's very tired from his job, an' you need ta leave him_ _alone ta rest for a little while, alright?'_

"Did she speak to you about why I wished to meet you?" Lord Kevern said.

Cinderfang blinked. She recalled her conversation with Reina, or tried too— to be honest, she'd kinda been jumping and laughing through the whole thing.

"Um, no, milord," Cinderfang said. She blushed beneath her fur when she felt Lord Kevern looking at her even more closely while she answered. "Is… is it about my letters?"

"No," Lord Kevern said firmly, "it is not about your letters."

Cinderfang felt something sinking in her chest just a little like a cork bobbing down in draining water. She had no idea why. Some of the sinking feeling abruptly dissipated under a bubbly lift when Lord Kevern leaned forward, and Cinderfang's breath got stuck in her throat when he touched her wrist and looked straight into her eyes.

"However," he said, "it is about something very important to Greyspire and all of those within it. Cinderfang," Lord Kevern said, his eyes eerily piercing and smoldering brighter than coals in a fireplace grate, "have you ever heard of Redwall, and a mouse named Martin?"

* * *

Ashclaw had really needed the nap a few days ago; he wasn't goin' to lie about that. And walking out of Frostooth's room with only a blunt _'I'm takin' a break' _to Kike had helped him get the whole apology to Cinderfang over with, and Hellgates knew Ashclaw would never regret that.

But he did regret bein' cruel to Kike when he'd just been trying to help, missing his scouting mission, and getting called out by Frostooth on all three… especially the latter.

You could apologize to Kike for screwin' up and being a complete scumbag for a few days; you couldn't apologize to Frostooth for dropping a single piece of torch cloth by his foot, even if he didn't do anything to you for it. The arctic fox regarded 'apologies' as useless trinkets of politeness that weighed a beast down and sank them into the snow to die once they had received too many of them. If one had to give them, they gave them in increments of hard work. An' Ashclaw had some apologizing to do.

Which was why the pine marten was currently stuck dusting his paws off from delivering the third load of torches to a supply room today, and wondering where the blazes Cinderfang was— he could use some chattering to distract him right about now.

Ashclaw massaged his paws, trying to get the oily sensation of torch ties off his fur. Behind him, beasts drifted through the hall, discussing recent lessons and new sentry shifts. Ashclaw forced down a pang of jealousy when another pine marten came walking by, animatedly chattering with a blocky fox about some written lore from a place named 'Mossflower'— and also complaining.

_Oh, poor you, _Ashclaw thought, closing the supply door as the other marten passed, _havin' to curl up in a chair somewhere an' read so many thick scrolls an' write about them; how bloody awful._

Ashclaw bit his tongue instead of speaking and tried to straighten out his list of deliveries an' priorities for the day. _Get more torches from Kike, go to the supply room a floor up, pay Vermund a visit so he's not freezin' his tail off alone down there in the dungeon, go find Cinderfang, wherever she is—_

"Ashclaw!"

He turned, blinking in surprise. The soft, browning form of an approaching ermine greeted him, lightly waving a paw as she went. She was still wearing her sentry patrol outfit and carrying a spear over her shoulder, a red ribbon fluttering from the end of the weapon as a marker.

"Hey, Cygnet!" Ashclaw said, giving a wave back. Cygnet nodded in response, moving out of the scattered flow of Greyspire residents to come closer.

Cygnet was a slender, sharp-eyed ermine female that both ran personal favors for Reina and aided on scouting missions with Ashclaw, also occasionally paying a visit to the dungeon to lend a paw or two. She had a pleasant voice, a ridiculous capability for multitasking Ashclaw envied, hourglass hips, and incredibly little patience for anyone who stared at those hips beyond their allotted time.

Ashclaw thought she and Vermund had been partnered on the same fighting force before Vermund had bailed. But it was kinda hard to tell at times, he thought, seeing Vermund would suddenly become interested in another part of the room or come down with a case of _'here-how-about-we-change-the-subject'_ whenever Cygnet was mentioned. His already fluffy winter coat or the scraps of it remaining would puff up further and look bloody ridiculous.

Ashclaw occasionally felt the urge to take one of Cinderfang's grumbled suggestions and kick Vermund down the stairs so maybe his head would be bumped enough to knock some common sense into him.

"Hey, Ash…" Cygnet said. Ashclaw frowned when he saw her pause. "Have ya talked to Cinderfang lately?"

"What? No," Ashclaw said, "not since before her lesson started this mornin'. Why do you ask?"

"Crud," Cygnet muttered her breath, blue eyes momentarily hardening as she glanced over her shoulder at something, "so it's already happened— look, Ashclaw, I think ya need to go find her. I'm not too certain why 'o how, but Lord Kevern is startin' to take an interest in a few students, an' Cinderfang is one of them. Ya might want to be there while they're talkin' to see why. Just a heads up."

"I— what?" Ashclaw barked, straightening. "Are you sayin' Cinderfang is goin' to meet up with Lord Kevern for somethin'? I know he was lecturin' her class on somethin' a few days back, but—"

"Yes," Cygnet said. She crossed her arms, and Ashclaw could see the edges of her shoulder fur faintly bristling. "I don't know exactly why— Reina wouldn't tell me that much— but it's stressin' the absolute frag out of her, an' I don't think she's been sleepin' for the past two nights the last I saw. An' if somethin' stresses Reina, it's not good. Whatever Lord Kevern is plannin', she's not onboard with it, but she's lettin' him do it. It's somethin' to do with findin' a model student 'o young one, for some reason…? I don't know. But it's not givin' me a good feelin'. An' when I heard Cinderfang was one of the mentioned, well—"

"Whatever the 'ellgates Lord Kevern suggests, she'll go along with it; she idolizes that ferret," Ashclaw said. He could already hear his tone hardening and tolerance dying. Lord Kevern had touched their family enough; he needed to leave the Pyrefur name alone. "An' if she ever meets him in person… I don't know what she'd agree ta 'elp with. Thanks, Cygnet," he said, waking out of his brewing thoughts enough to give his gratitude. "I'm goin' to need to talk to her later about it."

_Damnit, Cinder, not everythin' Lord Kevern suggests is a good idea, whatever it is._

Cygnet shrugged. "She's yours an' Vermund's little sister. I thought you ought to know."

Worry was already beginning to boil in Ashclaw's stomach. The fact that Lord Kevern wanted something with _Cinderfang _was bad enough on its own— and the fact that Reina was worried about it was worse. It didn't have anythin' to do with academics, did it? Ashclaw didn't think Cinderfang was that shining of a student to attract abbey-wide recognition; yeah, she was decent, but no more.

_And if she really IS that good, _Ashclaw thought, _I have some explainin' and catching up to do._

Some saturated guilt nipped at his chest. Had he really missed Cinder improving that much while he was off working? Could she have possibly been taking leaps and bounds while he was off tying a bunch of oily torches in Frostooth's room, or hiking out in the freezing grounds around Greyspire? _If I missed her growing all because of work…_ Hellgates, Ashclaw thought, it wasn't only Vermund who needed to fall down the dungeon stairs to get some common sense knocked into his head.

The males of the Pyrefur family had a handy knack for missing out on the growth of their other family members. Pelle hadn't been there to see either Cinderfang or Ashclaw walk for the first time. It had completely devastated him.

"_Ash, you're growin' up big," _he had said, letting Ashclaw hold onto his paws and lifting him on every stride and allowing the grinning, skinny cub to practically fly each time he took a step. _"You're goin' to be wieldin' your first dagger an' climbin' up your first mountain in no time, mark my words. But I sometimes I wish you were a bit smaller, so I could've seen the first one of these,"_ Pelle had said, sighing and looking down at Ashclaw's steps.

"Well," Cygnet said, breaking Ashclaw out of his reminiscence, "if you want to talk things over with her about whatever Lord Kevern is askin', I suggest you hurry up. They're already in a meetin'."

Ashclaw stared.

"…what?"

"Reina was worryin' about this days ago," Cygnet said. She tapped a curved black claw on her arm. "Apparently, today was when Lord Kevern finally went to go talk to who he wanted. I don't know if he's doin' it in groups 'o one-on-one 'o what, but from the air Reina was givin' off, it's only Cinderfang now—"

"Cygnet, I'm sorry, but I have ta go," Ashclaw said. He was already beginning to back up, and the voices of the ever-thickening crowd around them were starting to dull out into a flat roar of background noise. The hallway and suddenly seemed longer and even more cluttered then before. Were there really that many beasts by the staircase? "But thank you for tellin' me. I need ta go find Cinder right now."

"It's no problem," Cygnet said, already resigning herself to a walk as she saw something in Ashclaw's movements increasing that was highly familiar. Ashclaw felt like he was being eyed with the same air Cygnet would use to watch a slowly panicking fellow warrior when they accidentally stepped on fragile ice. "Just be tactful about breakin' into the conversation; don't be embarrassin' your younger sister."

Ashclaw barely heard her final words as he turned and started off down the hall, weaving around other Greyspire residents in their habits and ice-worn garments as he went on the way to Lord Kevern's meeting room. Somehow, his walk turned into a run, and the marten could feel accelerated breath catching in his throat and his heart pounding a miniature drumbeat in his chest as he flew around the hallway corner and started up the stairs, his tail streaming behind him.

_It's only a meeting,_ he told himself, dodging around a yelping rat scholar who almost dropped their scrolls on the way down the stairs, _it's only a meeting, it's only a meeting._

But that sure as Hellgates didn't stop him from speeding up and ducking around other residents in his way, or keep the bad feeling from spreading throughout his body like a sludgy drop of ink coloring water or frost spreading across a windowpane.

_This is what it felt like the day dad died,_ Ashclaw realized, his thoughts and feelings clicking together. _It might only be a meetin', but this is what it feels like._

The pine marten ran faster.

* * *

A.N: _Endgame I of IV_

Part II will follow shortly; the original finale chapter was too long to be comfortably posted as one. All finale chapters of the POVs will be called endgames and named, and there will be four in total. Each one besides the fourth will be a two-parter.

If readers are curious, I'll post the names of the other endgames in the A.N notes of the next chapter, though it's pretty obvious whose endgame name is whose (except for one, but you guys will probably figure out that one anyway.)

The Greyspire arc is wrapping up; everyone make their predictions in reviews and hold on tight before Part II arrives, because there's no turning back.

I love you all, every last reader,

—SL


	14. Children of Greyspire: Part II

"…_Where there is desire, there is going to be flame_

_Where there is a flame, someone's bound to get burned_

_But just because it burns, doesn't mean you're going to die_

_You have to get up and try, try, try."_

—P!nk, _Try_

* * *

When Cinderfang had first been invited by Lord Kevern to meet with him about something, she had been bouncing off the walls in excitement, and struggling to keep her swooning in check when she came through the meeting room door and sat down. It had been even harder to do so once they'd started talkin'— 'cause really, Lord Kevern was even better up close. Even if she had to fight to keep from makin' a ninny of herself or to keep her fur from fluffing and her face from heating up.

After the conversation had taken a turn towards Redwall, a once-been mouse named Martin, and somethin' special Lord Kevern would like Cinderfang to do, the atmosphere had changed rapidly.

Cinderfang was having a bit of trouble not staring at Lord Kevern after he had explained what he wanted. She was goggle-eyed and completely at a loss for words, and yet he was just sittin' in the chair next to hers, looking as calm and lordly as he had been during the lecture or whenever he gave an announcement to Greyspire.

"So you want me ta be a ghost?"

"Not a ghost," Lord Kevern corrected gently. "A guardian spirit. There is a distinct difference between the two. Ghosts do not have a choice to remain behind; you would."

"Huh," Cinderfang said, mulling her thoughts over. Her throat was dry and sticky, and talking seemed more difficult, in a detached way incredibly different from her previous shyness. "Wouldn't that mean I would have to… die?"

When Lord Kevern had been speaking of dying, it had sounded so noble and clean and perfect, like it was worth somethin'. But when Cinderfang said it and the word passed her lips, suddenly, all of the fluffy air she had been treading on around Lord Kevern seemed to sag and chill.

_Die._

It brought back the faded memory of coughing and watching a trail of black smoke floating up from Greyspire's grounds, and feeling Ashclaw hold her far too close and way too hard as they looked out the window.

Cinderfang pressed herself further back into the chair cushions to try and salvage some warmth.

"Yes," Lord Kevern said. "You would. I do not intend to tell you otherwise. But were you to do so, you could be drawn back to Greyspire. You would be an inhabitant of the abbey again, though not a physically felt one, and you would still remain home. It would be different— not quite a true death. And you would be honored by everyone."

Cinderfang was edged out of her shell of cushions and hard smoky memories as Lord Kevern gently stroked her wrist again. She tried to find her tongue once more.

"Would… would I feel anythin'?" she said. Lord Kevern's fingers curled a bit further around her wrist, their touch light, warm, and open. It was the same comforting gesture Vermund used when he wanted to tell her things were goin' to be alright without huggin' her, and Cinderfang pretended it was Vermund's brown paw resting on hers instead of Lord Kevern's. She summoned up a surge of strength. "Dyin' hurts; would it be fast?" she blurted out, her wide hazel and brown eyes going up to Lord Kevern's face. "An' what if I don't want ta die?"

The warlord paused for a moment, considering something. Cinderfang swore his mask was a bit darker beneath his eyes than anywhere else.

"Yes, it would hurt," he said. "But only for a moment. And I promise it would end swiftly," he said, and Cinderfang couldn't doubt the solid assurance in his eyes. It was stronger than steel, and almost like—

"_Don't worry, Cinderfang. I'm not goin' ta let Breade's older brother say that about you again, alright? We're… goin' ta have a talk. What he said was wrong, too. We're not orphans— we have each other, don't we? Come on. Here… stop cryin'… let's go get lunch afore Vermund eats everythin', alright?"_

Ashclaw had clasped her paws and looked up at her from where he'd been kneeling to get level with her in complete sincerity. The look in his mismatched eyes like hers had been an unbreakable promise.

Lord Kevern still hadn't answered her second question.

"I'm not… I'm not sure," Cinderfang said. Her voice was suddenly small as she felt Lord Kevern's undivided attention on her. She was pressed into the chair, and there was nowhere to go. "I don't— I can't leave Ashclaw behind," she said, some of her backbone returning. Her paw crawled out from under Lord Kevern's touch. "Oh Vulpez, I don't know 'ow much it would hurt him; I promised I wasn't goin' ta leave him like mom an' dad did, an' I can't break that. I don't want him ta be alone."

A split second of annoyance flashed across Lord Kevern's face at the mention of the rest of her family. Cinderfang didn't notice it. It cleared away swiftly to make room for more calm tranquility on the ferret's face. He adjusted part of his cloak collar and leaned in closer to her, still keeping a soothing voice.

"You said your brother wants to learn to read, did you not? And that he was restrained by the amount of work he did for the both of you? Do not make that face, Cinderfang; it is none of your fault," Lord Kevern said, pressing his larger paw back over hers in just the right way. "However, were you to do this, I can guarantee that we would allow Ashclaw to study and learn up to the highest stage Greyspire can provide, free of any other obligations."

Cinderfang looked up sharply.

"You would do that?" she blurted out. Lord Kevern nodded his head.

"Yes," he said. "As well as that, he would not have to work another minute for the rest of his life— not for himself or you. There would be no more exhaustion or coming home late."

Cinderfang tried to tread the water flooding in over her head, and she clumsily grabbed at the one lifesaver and safe point she could see, one calling for her with open arms and two different bright eyes.

"He would get ta study, yeah, but he'd miss me," she said, coiling up further in the chair again. It still got her no further from Lord Kevern. "He'd be miserable. An' I'd miss him too. Studyin's not worth it when some'un close ta you is bein' hurt— _nothin'_ is worth it. I don't… I don't want ta leave him behind… not like mom an' dad…"

"Cinderfang, were you to become a guardian spirit, you would not leave him behind," Lord Kevern said. "You would not be able to greet him or hold him as close as before, but you would still be able to see him. You would still be able to comfort him within in his dreams. In fact, you would be able to see all of Greyspire," Lord Kevern said, delicately edging her along. "You would be able to care for and tend to all of your friends, and give them comfort as well. You love them, do you not? Don't you wish to support them?"

"I—" Cinderfang said, squirming in her chair as the water closed in.

"You would be helping everyone on an unprecedented scale," Lord Kevern continued. He tilted his head slightly but didn't lean closer when Cinderfang turned her face away and lowered her eyes, screwing them shut and refusing to look at his face. The ferret stroked her paw. "For you to claim that type of achievement in kindness in his wake… don't you want to make Ashclaw proud?" he said softly.

Cinderfang's eyes snapped open.

"It would not only be Ashclaw who would be proud of you," Lord Kevern said, continuing as if he hadn't seen her reaction. "Everyone would be. I have no doubt the memory of your father would be, since he was always trying to better Greyspire. _I_ would be proud," he said. "And I would be indebted to your bravery to do something I cannot— and am not— suited for. This is something special, that will only take the type of kindness and hope you possess. _You_ are special."

This time, Lord Kevern did lean in a little closer.

"Will you do it, Cinderfang?" he coaxed. "If not for me, then for the good of your brother?"

The martenmaid looked up to see the face of Kevern, hopeful in a dogged, tired way and filled with genuine pride and gratitude.

Cinderfang drowned.

* * *

By the time Ashclaw got up to the meeting room's floor— after the horrible realization of skidding past Lord Kevern's quarters and regular spots and finding he wasn't there— the pine marten's heart was thrumming fit to burst in his chest, and equal parts dread and adrenaline were shooting through his veins.

He had shot right on past Cinderfang's classroom a few minutes ago. _I have to be close, _Ashclaw thought, forcing himself to slow when he saw other vermin up ahead. If he ran right into the meeting with his chest heaving and screaming bloody murder, something told him it wouldn't go well.

One of the guards milling around outside the door tensed when they heard someone approaching, and they turned to see Ashclaw. They stood there frozen for a second before muttering something to the other two guards and beginning to walk his way. It took Ashclaw a moment of surprise to realize that the guard had a staff instead of a spear, and it was Reina.

_There were armed guards outside the room Cinderfang and Lord Kevern were in._

"Reina!" Ashclaw said, drawing himself up to his full height and opening his arms as he came over to the rat. He felt some relief over his stabbing worry. At least here was someone he could trust more than Lord Kevern. Reina paused uncomfortably where she was, letting Ashclaw approach. The guards nearby eyed him and shifted their spears. "What's goin' on? I heard Cinderfang was havin' a talk with Lord Kevern; why?"

"Ashclaw, your sister is goin' to be out shortly," Reina said. Ashclaw felt her voice was far too raspy in its attempt to be soothing— an' why the Hellgates was she trying to be _soothing?_ "If you'll wait, you'll get to see her."

Ashclaw frowned at the evasion. He tried to peek above Reina's head from where she had someone managed to block him, and the marten made an effort to step around the rat. "I need ta talk ta her. I'm sorry if I'm interruptin', but this is important."

It had been a half lie, and the guards still shuffled closer together. Ashclaw could feel his fur rising as Reina's staff moved to block his step. She looked up at him with baleful, exhausted eyes.

"Ashclaw, please. You're goin' to have to wait."

Something in her voice gave Ashclaw pause, and whatever he saw flitting through her expression was enough to make him overstep her tilted staff. He used more claws than he needed in order to shove Reina aside. She backpedaled to try and stop him.

"Ashclaw, I said _stop,_" Reina said. Ashclaw stopped and stared at the raw snap in her tone. Reina was refusing to get aggressive with her staff, despite her capability for it, but she was still blocking him.

"…Reina, what's goin' on?" he said slowly. "What is Cinderfang bein' asked ta do?"

"Ashclaw, I can't ask you again—"

"What are you doin' ta my younger sister?" Ashclaw barked, his ears pinning back. He was starting to advance on Reina and try to get past her, and her guards were growing uneasy. Ashclaw had a sudden flashback to Reina coming near his mother and delivering a final verdict about the dungeon which had almost brought Aiyana to her knees. Fear instead of worry began to drive the marten's aggression. "_Where is she?_"

"She's in the meetin' room right now," Reina said, firmly putting herself in Ashclaw's way, "an' she'll come out later. Just… wait."

Ashclaw narrowed his eyes. Reina was telling him nothing.

"Sure," he said, fur prickling at the oddly pained look on Reina's face. "I'll wait." Ashclaw sucked in a huge breath of air. "Cinderfang! OI!" he bellowed. His call echoed throughout the entire hall.

"Ashclaw," Reina warned, and the guards were starting to migrate over to the pine marten. All of them were giving the meeting door wary, cautious glances. Ashclaw gave them all fierce looks.

"What's the matter? If it's just a harmless talk between her an' Lord Kevern, me interruptin' shouldn't hurt any, should it?" Ashclaw said, glaring at her. "Unless he's plannin' somethin' else like he did with our father? Cinderfang!" he called. "Cinderfang! Hey!"

"That's enough," the nearest guard said, raising his spear to push Ashclaw back, and every last bit of fear and worry exploded in Ashclaw's chest. He snarled, crouching as he moved back a step, and Reina was helpless to stop the chain of events unfolding.

"I'll stop when you give me back my little sister an' tell me what you're doin' ta her," Ashclaw growled, teeth bared, and everything inside of him was flipping over and over in a hot mess. He tried to yell once more. "CIN—"

The fox guard moved forward with bristling fur, Ashclaw mistook the swipe of the spear meant to just stop him as something else, and the marten leaped over it and dove for the door. He and the other rat guard collided together.

"Get off!" Ashclaw yelled, trying to squirm free from the guard's grasp. Hard fingers tried to clamp around his wrists. He jumped, driving his foot into the guard's stomach, and his following punch to the rat's face was jerked back as the fox grabbed his arm. "I said," Ashclaw snarled, snapping his arm back and driving his elbow into the fox's nose, "GET OFF!"

There was a crunch, and the fox yipped in pain. Ashclaw took the opportunity to dodge a grab at his shoulders and ripped at the rat's arms with his sharp claws. Skin and fur scraped beneath them.

"_Cinderfang!_" he howled, desperately wanting the door to burst open, to get some kind of sign from her. "CINDER, COME ON!"

"Shut him up!" the fox snarled with watery eyes, trying to pin down the writhing marten he had in a shoulder lock, and Ashclaw went berserk as the rat tried to grab his legs.

"NO!" he shouted, kicking out again, and Ashclaw sank his teeth into the fox's neck. Ashclaw felt his fangs sheering into fur and meat with hot blood smearing across his mouth, the fox yelped in agony and released him, and then he was pulling away, spitting out fur and trying to escape the guards and get to the meeting room door. He needed to get to Cinder, he needed to get to Cinder, _he needed to get to Cinder—_

"Cinderfang! CINDERFANG! _CINDER!_" Ashclaw yelled, fighting against the guards every step of the way, biting, clawing, punching, and kicking as he tried to wriggle out of their grasps. Snarls curled down the deserted hall. The edge of a spear almost grazed against the side of his face; one of the guards was using their weapons. Ashclaw was distracted and slammed against the stone wall by the fox before he yanked away with a burst of strength, and he felt warmth pooling down over his forehead.

_Have ta get ta Cinder, have ta Cinder; oh Vulpez, have ta get ta Cinder—!_

"NO! GET OFF ME! GIVE HER BACK! DON'T YOU TOUCH HER; GIVE HER BACK! CINDERFANG! CINDER!"

"Damnit, get his other arm; he's about to get free—!"

"I'm _tryin'_—"

"_KEVERN, IF YOU'VE TOUCHED HER, I'LL KILL YOU!_" Ashclaw screamed as the guards' paws latched onto him, blood pouring down over his crazed eyes from his split temple. The fox and rat had his arms now; he was left blindly lunging at the door as somebeast else approached from the back. "YOU HEAR ME, KEVERN? _I'LL GODDAMN KILL YOU!_"

Too late, Ashclaw glimpsed a flash of brown movement behind him. He twisted within his captors' grasps, and a sickening crack of pain split the entire back of his head open. Agony arched through his skull, flecks of white and blinding red filled his eyes, and the last thing Ashclaw saw was the upcoming floor as his knees crumpled and the world went black.

* * *

Reina could only watch as the eldest Pyrefur's son legs gave out from under him beneath the spear blow. He hit the floor with a thud as the guards released his arms. The pine marten twitched on the stone a few times before he was still. Blood began to well up from beneath his dark fur and fill the crack along the back of his head, dripping down the side of his downturned face.

Ironically enough, with Ashclaw's blood droplets thrown across the nearby stone and dripping on the floor, Greyspire was indeed— temporarily— a Redwall.

From behind him, Cygnet lowered her spear. She was breathing harder from the exertion of running up to face the commotion. It was her duty to aid and protect Reina. She had followed it. There was a clunk as she let the end of her metal weapon tap against the floor.

"He was losin' it," Cygnet said hollowly, and Reina could already see the slow horror and regret building up behind her eyes. "I had… I had to stop him."

The ermine knelt by Ashclaw's side. Neither the guard fox nor rat looked at her as she quietly brushed aside a peal of bloody fur on Ashclaw's head and then checked his pulse. There was a long pause between them all.

"Unconscious," Cygnet announced, and Reina felt like they had been released from hearing a death toll. "He might need a few stitches, but he'll be alright. A spear blow to the back of the head won't kill ya."

"I know," Reina muttered, remembering the defiant and dead look on Pelle's face as he stood behind a collapsed Revisk. Her whole being ached as her memories blurred to put Pelle, Revisk, Ashclaw, and Cygnet together, and the shattering faces of the desperate Pyrefur family strung it all into one.

There was quiet creak of the door, and Reina forced herself to lift her head and behold Lord Kevern slipping out of the room, unruffled and almost… triumphant. The latter mood was only polluted by the dark circles beneath Lord Kevern's eyes and another emotion which wasn't quite making it to the surface, but it was triumph nevertheless. Reina could feel what was left of her heart sinking. She didn't need to ask how the meeting had gone.

_Cinderfang, you poor naïve cub, trusting him with your heart goes nowhere good._

Lord Kevern paused when he saw Ashclaw's bleeding form on the floor, and for a moment, Reina hoped she saw regret; she hoped she saw something burning him from the inside out for what was occurring. But it was not to be. The ferret recovered at a miraculous speed, and the slight bit of widening his surprised eyes had undergone faded. Reina was left with the taste of charred ash in her mouth for her previous thought about wishing for him to burn.

"_Everything is gone, Reina… everything. They have burned my home. They have burned my __**family**__."_

"_It's not over yet. They haven't burned you."_

The rat felt empty.

"…I am assuming he caught wind of this discussion and attempted to intervene?" Lord Kevern said, studying Ashclaw. Nobeast had bothered to roll him over yet.

"He suspected somethin', yes," Reina said flatly. She could feel Cygnet radiating hostility and confusion from where her eyes were lowered in Lord Kevern's presence, and the rat had a distinct feeling that Cygnet was doing it out of no respect. "Did—"

"I have handled my duties, _advisor,_" Lord Kevern said, and Reina could hear something shifting over deep down in his voice far worse than a cracking ice floe. A sick feeling twisted inside her when she saw a look of pain in Lord Kevern's eyes that mixed disgustingly with the shine of triumph to form something unnatural.

_Somethin' is wrong._

"Vosulo, Crek, pick him up," Lord Kevern commanded, gesturing at Ashclaw. The fox and rat exchanged looks together before heading for the fallen marten. They didn't know him. In their heads, he was only a madbeast who had openly announced he was going to kill Lord Kevern, Reina thought; of course he would be picked up an'—

_No._

"Milord, what are you plannin' to do with him?" Reina asked, her words coming out sharper than she had intended. All of her instincts were screaming at her not to harass Lord Kevern now— and she firmly ignored them. Cygnet was tensed but still unmoving. Good warriors followed orders.

"That is a good inquiry, Advisor Reina," Lord Kevern said. Reina felt a chill rake down her spine as Lord Kevern turned to look at her, and she saw the same brokenness within him that had been clouding his mind on the day his family had burned. "But I have been thinking things over— particularly about creating a guardian spirit— and I have decided to change some of my tactics."

Lord Kevern waved at Vosulo and Crek as they hauled Ashclaw up by his shoulders, holding the unconscious marten between them. His blood-dripping head hung down over his chest.

"You see," Lord Kevern continued, speaking as if there was only Reina, as if they were alone again, "having a volunteer is not enough. They must be willing, yes. But you cannot merely let them offer up their lives out of devotion and expect them to return. If so, Redwall and many other places would swarm with ghosts and spirits of the like— which they are not. Obviously, there is another factor."

Ashclaw kept dripping blood onto the floor. Reina could feel Cygnet clenching her fists. The abused remains of the rat's courage and common sense screamed brokenly at her.

"Lord Kevern, what are you talkin' about?" Reina said. Her words came out accusatory. She struggled to fit the pieces together and look between the warlord and the shattered marten, because Vulpez, she was _missin' _something; something she shouldn't be.

"After some consideration," Lord Kevern continued, speaking as if Reina hadn't interrupted or wasn't beginning to bristle in front of him, "I have come to realize what Martin possessed along with his love to bind him to Redwall, which other beasts did not." The ferret's eyes lit up with a grim understanding and fractured pain. "_Suffering_."

Reina could feel her heart twisting and racing long before her head caught up, and suddenly, the entirety of Greyspire was in the middle of winter, and every last piece of it was bleak and harsh. She couldn't find her tongue.

"Take the pine marten to the dungeon," Lord Kevern said, tilting his head towards Vosulo and Crek. He radiated the same harsh, regal, untouchable command as when he was taking Icebloom. "Place him in the furthest back cell. Make sure he is tended to and healed; allow him to be bandaged. You may inform the other guards that anything short of permanently damaging him or killing him is permitted. He is to be allowed time to heal between severe injuries before the activities are resumed."

"_Kevern,_" Reina said, staring at him. Cygnet choked beneath her breath.

Vosulo and Crik hesitated, for only a moment. They bowed their heads shortly afterwards.

"…yes, milord," Crik finally said. Both fox and rat turned away with Ashclaw. The marten was lifted down the hall, his head lolling on his chest and legs and tail dragging over the ground.

"What are you _doin'_?" Reina demanded, whirling on Lord Kevern, and parts of her she thought he would never be able to fissure were snapping in disbelief. The ferret— despite his firm stance— looked like he himself was breaking, and he had no damned care as to why.

"I am doing just what I said I intended to do, Reina," Lord Kevern said, his eyes alight with ferocity as he cracked. "Creating a guardian spirit. The young volunteer loves her brother plenty; if she does not return out of devotion to Greyspire, she will return to soothe his pain."

"She'll return to the DUNGEON to soothe his pain; there's no reason for this!" Reina said. Her staff shook in her fist. She wished she wasn't born with her limp, just to be able to reject her cane and throw it at Lord Kevern's face. "One Pyrefur died in there already. That was enough! 'O did you reconsider, an' now you want a damn wraith in the dungeon instead?"

Lord Kevern gave her an odd look.

"Hardly. She will return here instead."

"An' _why,_ Kevern?" Reina snarled, forgetting her past promise to hold to the 'Lord' barrier, "_why?_"

Lord Kevern looked her straight in the face.

"Because I promised her that he would remain here."

Reina stared back at his breaking eyes and was speechless as the rest of him caught up and slowly began to shatter into aggressiveness, Lord Kevern's fur bristling and his shoulders beginning to tremble. The rat opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Cinderfang would die, she thought. Cinderfang would die, and just be a lost soul floating around the netherworld. She would feel Ashclaw's pain even from the Dark Forest. And when the martenmaid dragged herself from well of spirits to search for her older brother in the halls of their home— to seek him out and comfort him— she would find nothing. She would search and search Greyspire desperately, binding herself to the abbey's foundation and sobbing for him, and there would be _nothing._

For a moment, Reina couldn't believe that a beast would actually hold tight to Lord Kevern's promise that their sibling would be untouched and just left alone within the walls of Greyspire, despite what all evidence said, and refuse to look elsewhere or believe him capable of ill will.

Then she remembered that they were talking about Cinderfang.

"…you're insane," Reina rasped, looking up at Lord Kevern. "You're a madbeast."

_You're a monster._

Lord Kevern heard the other intonation to her words too easily. The ferret bared part of his teeth in a mockery of a smile, his fur on end and askew.

"I am glad to hear that from you, Reina. Were it from any other beast, I would pay it no heed." Lord Kevern leaned in closer. "As of tomorrow, after this has been finished, you are free to pick two beasts to train for future leadership; I hope you find an heir that stays to your liking," Kevern spat, his expression filled with agony over the ferocity. Two pairs of dark-ringed eyes that hadn't slept for days stared each other down.

"Kever—"

"We are _done_ here," Lord Kevern said in a low, raw voice, cutting her off as fast as possible when he heard his name. Reina could see the strained exhaustion full-out in his face now, because the ferret's mask was completely gone, and there was nothing left to hide behind. He roughly stepped back, and this time, Reina didn't feel like the one whose legs were folding beneath them while they started crying against the wall. "My business is finished, as is yours. There is nothing holding you here any longer. I suggest you move on."

"To where? Downstairs?" Reina said. Lord Kevern's eyes momentarily widened. "'O would you rather have Cygnet an' I head into the meetin' room," Reina said, refusing to break eye contact with Lord Kevern and ignoring her rapidly thumping heart, "because you have to have another beast take care of everythin' for you?"

It took Lord Kevern a moment to be rid of his disbelief, but it was immediately replaced by a confident coldness. He drew himself up taller, glaring down at Reina, and the rat tensed, trying to stand her ground. An immensely uncomfortable Cygnet was trying to keep her composure in the background.

"No," he said. Some of the normal fierceness was back in his eyes, Reina thought, but it provided as much as comfort as Hellgates. "I have begun this. And _I_— not anybeast else in my place— will be the one to finish it."

Lord Kevern had always hid a dagger on him since before he had a cloak. Reina saw his paw momentarily hover over his left side. She considered driving her staff into his stomach for a half a second before she realized she couldn't move, and it was only hollow whining in her head that would never come to pass.

_For more than one reason you won't admit,_ the voice in her head whispered, finally resurfacing. It gave a quiet sob and snarl. _Even now, when you know he's gone… you're pathetic._

Cygnet was shaking when Lord Kevern and Reina gave each other one last look, and Lord Kevern turned to go into the meeting room, left paw on his hidden dagger hilt. The ermine stalked over to Reina, leaning down over the frozen rat's shoulder.

"Reina," Cygnet said, her hot breath whispering against the rat's ear, "_do somethin'._ Vulpez, ya have to do somethin'," she pleaded. "He only listens to ya; ya have to stop him, that's _Cinderfang _in there—"

"Cygnet, stop."

The ermine stared at her, even from over her shoulder. Reina could feel her bristling fur. "What?"

Lord Kevern had briefly halted at the meeting room door. Only his red-cloaked back and the back of his head were visible. The singular sign of his acknowledgment were his ears, which were quietly flipped back to hear the conversation.

"Cygnet, I said, _stop,_" Reina said. She glanced at Lord Kevern and his paused form before turning away and looking down the hall with a click of her staff. "It's his decision. I can't do anythin' about it."

Lord Kevern bowed his head at the flat, dead tone to her voice. Reina heard a faint click of a doorknob turning, a cloak rustling, and a door opening. She refused to look back when she heard it close with a click. Cygnet was standing a few strides behind her, staring in acidic disbelief.

"But ya've always—"

"Things change," Reina said quietly. "As do beasts."

The rat didn't need to look at Cygnet to feel her horror slowly turning to a hateful kind of pity as the ermine glared at her back. Cygnet stepped away from her. Reina was half expecting to feel a spear through her shoulder blades any second, but all that came was Cygnet's hostile confusion and hesitance as the ermine looked between Reina and her weapon, torn. Her head snapped up when Reina turned to look at her.

"Cygnet, you're free to go," Reina said. "There's nothin' holdin' you here any longer. You can leave," she softly. "Both my command an' here."

Some of Cygnet's hatred melted under Reina's words and the look on her face. Reina was starting to wander what her own expression was. The ermine lowered her spear, glancing at the closed meeting room door, and she swallowed, looking away. Cygnet slung her spear over her shoulders.

"I'll do that," she said. Some of her accusing and pitying glare came back. "Because unlike ya, Reina, I know when someone says that to me an' means it."

Cygnet turned and marched down the hall, heading in the opposite direction Reina had been going, and the rat could see the red ribbon from her spear dangling down and trembling. It was from no gust of air. The ermine began to run as she hit the middle of the hall, and she practically skidded around the corner to get down the staircase.

"VOSULO! CREK!" Cygnet called, her shouts echoing up the stairs even as the vermin vanished, chasing the tails of a fox, a rat, and a limp pine marten. "WAIT, STOP! COME BACK—"

Reina was left alone to stare at the walls of an empty hallway splattered with blood before she finally departed.

* * *

Cinderfang was nervously squirming in her chair like a pinioned cub before the door opened and Lord Kevern came in again. She sat up straighter, staring at his now crooked cloak clasp and ruffled fur.

"Lord Kevern—"

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, Cinderfang," Lord Kevern said, striding over. Cinderfang could only watch him continue as though he didn't look like her dad after a long, long day at work an' a fight with her mother. "But I had several tasks to attend to. Now I have taken care of them."

Lord Kevern was coming to stand right by her instead of sitting, but discomfort rose inside Cinderfang when she remembered the faint shouting she had heard outside. She squirmed away in her chair, trying to put distance between them and keep her head in order.

"Milord, what was the yellin' outside?" Cinderfang perked up, trying to look around Lord Kevern and see the door. "I thought I 'eard some'un, an' it sounded like—"

"Sit down, Cinderfang," Lord Kevern said, putting his paws on her shoulders. Cinderfang felt a jolt before he shoved her back down with less gentleness than he had so before. She felt sick; there was somethin' wrong.

_Ashclaw?_

"I don't want ta do this," Cinderfang burst out, pushing herself up against the cushioned chair back and trying to stand up while Lord Kevern remained in front of her, attempting to calm her down. "I want ta see Ash, I want Ashclaw—" she said shakily.

"You don't mean that," Lord Kevern, taking a gently patronizing voice. "You will see him soon enough." He put his paws on her shoulders again and pressed her back down, but with more gentleness than the last shove. Cinderfang felt her strength slide under from under her as her legs did, and she ended up sitting in the cushioned chair again.

When she looked up, all Cinderfang could see was Lord Kevern and his red cloak. He soothingly patted her on the shoulder again. _That's not how Ashclaw does it,_ Cinderfang thought. It felt wrong.

All the same, her fur ceased its prickling, and all of her last attempts at wriggling away and whines about Ashclaw died off. Lord Kevern relaxed when he saw her subdued again, looking wide-eyed and permanently confused at what was passing in front of her. She hadn't verbally agreed, but the fact that she wasn't running or biting him was as good as consent.

_Ash?_

"Thank you, Cinderfang," Lord Kevern said. His voice was back to the soft, low, comforting tone he had taken in their first conversation. It took Cinderfang a moment to realize that a crack had vanished from it now. The ferret's face was unreadable, but he was almost motherly as he pulled his paws from her shoulders and touched the side of her face, raising her chin slightly. _What is he doin'? _Lord Kevern pulled away.

"Now then," he continued, tone still welcoming and reassuring, "please close your eyes, Cinderfang."

Cinderfang numbly obeyed. Something stirred in the darkness.

"…Ashclaw?" she said in a small voice.

There was a slash of metal, and hot red liquid came pouring down her front.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away— in a much warmer and less ice-locked or stone constructed place— a tattooed, aged Juska vixen and her grandson sat in their lodge.

Atiya Fatewinder was attempting to patch one of her scarves, feeling her way through the stitches and loops of the needle. Despite her blindness, it didn't hamper her in everything. She added another stitch, making sure her other fingers were elsewhere when the needle was pulled through. The last thing she wanted was to sew her pelt to one of her decorated shawls.

In the nearby corner next to his grandmother, also working on patching some clothes, Taike sat cheerfully humming under his breath. He tied off one of the threads and clipped it with his claws.

"_The fire family will take refuge with ice,_" he sang, "_seeking comfort an' a place ta no longer roam. But the very thing that will save them, will damn the last 'un ta be—_"

Taike abruptly stopped humming.

It took Atiya a moment to realize her grandson had stopped his quiet singing, but when she did, she finished the stitch she was on and tilted her head slightly in what would have been a glance. Finally, after a long pause, Taike began humming again.

"…_ta find the wayward Halfling Taggerung, you must venture from tribe an' home,_" he said, smiling as he added another stitch, "_lure them from their hiding place, though the dangers don't come alone…_"

"You're done with the last 'un?" Atiya said. Taike flipped over the shirt he was mending, holding it up with triumph. He immediately noticed another tear he had missed and grinned broadly.

"No, grandma; there are still holes in the shirt."

"I din't mean the shirt," Atiya said, rolling her blinded eyes. She paused, contemplating something. Taike ran a new thread through the eye of his bone needle. "Why did you stop singin' the last prophecy?"

"There was no more reason ta do so," Taike said, beaming and showing all of his sharp teeth. His stretched smile didn't fade. "It was over."

Atiya looked on the verge of saying something before she thought better of it. Taike's smile only grew. Both of the Fatewinders turned back to their clothes, continuing to patch them up.

"Just make sure ta tell me if you see somethin' that actually matters ta us," Atiya grumbled, experimentally poking at the stitched hole in her shawl and stifling a cough.

"Will do, grandma!"

Atiya stifled a curse. Taike kept smiling. He started in on another hole on the shirt. The bone runes and bunches of herbs hanging from the lodge ceiling swayed softly.

The entire time, the seer continued his soft humming, merely without the first prophecy had he been repeating before.

"_Walk not on the flattened plains,_" the grinning Fatewinder sang,"_climb not the craggy mountains high. But wade 'neath moss flower's shade, an' Fate will not give you a lie…_"

There was no mention of the fire family or ice again.

* * *

_A.N: …where am I…? I din't…_

…

_Where is she?! CINDER! CINDERFANG! Vulpez, where is she?! I need ta find her! NO! NO, GET OFF ME! CINDERFANG! CINDERFANG, WHERE ARE YOU?! NO! STOP! I NEED 'ER BACK! CINDER! CINDE—_

The author has chosen to omit the rest of the character notes.

A.N: _Endgame I of IV_

So the Children of Greyspire Arc comes to an end. This is not the last to be seen of Ashclaw— far from it; his tale continues in another abbey and another time— but his last words in Redemption Twining are not going to appear for a good while. However, we will be seeing a face from Greyspire later on! After this, we head south, and as Taike has noted, towards the Taggerung. Expect two back-to-back chapters concerning the Juska and our favorite foulmouthed weasel in the future (unless you prefer Orch, but let's not let Dipper hear that, shall we?)

As requested, here are the names of the future endgames:

I. _The Children of Greyspire_, Parts I and II: Completed

II. _The Merciless Savior_, Parts I and II: Uncompleted

III. _The Blood Inked Warrior_, Parts I and II: Uncompleted

IV. _The Blindness of Sight_, Part I: Uncompleted

I thank all readers who have stuck with me up until this milestone, as awful of one as it may be. I weave tales for all of you. For anyone who wants to see Ashclaw's continued tale, he reappears in _The Muteness of Martin _and the first chapter of _Balanced,_ with a few minor changes. You have been forewarned for a few small spoilers— but quite frankly, you have seen the worse already. What comes next is only inconsequential.

The "Most Hated Character" poll is still up if no one has voted and feels as though they have made up their mind, by the way.

—SL


	15. Chapter 12

"—_so I wasn't sure if he'd gotten killed 'o wandered off, but— oi, Dipper! What the 'ell are you doin' over there?"_

"_What the 'ellgates does it LOOK like?" Dipper growled back._

"…_some'un's in a pissy mood."_

"_I'd say he is," Slipgale replied. Dipper resisted the urge to glare at her, viciously focusing on his tankard instead._

_Seeing the other warrior's disposition, Sunstreak waved goodbye to Slipgale before crossing over to Dipper. The weasel was sulkily clinging to a tankard of ale by the corner of the fire, and his unpleasant air was enough to drive off the majority of other Juska from venturing over. It was something all too familiar to them; they didn't want to waste their time with it._

"_Any reason you're celebratin'?" Sunstreak said, looking down and eyeing Dipper's ale. It was far too much and far too early in the day, even for a Juska. Dipper currently didn't give a damn._

"_No."_

_Sunstreak held back a roll of his eyes at the curt response and sat down next Dipper, sprawling out over the log._

"_Well, frag, you coulda fooled me." Sunstreak paused, eyeing his companion. "I en't seen Vanice around for a while. Are you two still—"_

"_Not anymore," Dipper said. "Not since of this mornin', anyway." _

_Sunstreak arched his eyebrows sympathetically as Dipper tipped his tankard up, swallowing down the ale instead of spitting up the words that had been building on his tongue. The weasel bore a flat expression the whole time. It was the exact opposite of the face he'd wore during the screaming match with Vanice that had ended in one of them storming out— permanently._

"_Goddamn. I'm sorry," Sunkstreak said. "'ellgates, you two were gettin' along fine afore then; I actually thought it might've worked out."_

"_Well, it muckin' DIN'T," Dipper snapped. He and Sunstreak glared at each other for a second before Dipper averted his eyes and went back to his tankard. "…now en't the best time, Sunstreak."_

"_The 'ellgates it en't," Sunstreak said, making himself comfortable and waving at a nearby Sarck and his ale. "HEY! SARCK, YOU BUGGER, SHARE SOME OF THAT!" The ferret turned back to Dipper, loosely crossing his arms._

"…_you know, Dipper," he said finally, looking the weasel over, "They always say that there's more fish in the sea, but seein' how many females you've been through in the tribe— well, damn. You're runnin' out of options."_

"_Sunstreak, why the frag are you 'ere?" Dipper growled, some of his fur bristling at the comment, but only half of his action was due to anger. The ferret warrior's words stung a bit more than he'd expected; things only stinkin' hurt him when they were true. "Shouldn't you be out skinnin' a mouse 'o drownin' in a river 'o somethin'?"_

_Sunstreak grinned slightly at the tone in Dipper's voice. He gave Sarck a rough salute for passing over a tankard of ale, which Sarck returned, though the older ferret made himself scarce from Dipper's violent sulkiness soon after. Vulpez knew it was best to avoid the weasel after he had gone through yet another fallout._

"_Don't be an ungrateful jrakat," Sunstreak said, noticing Sarck's fast departure as he took a swig from his ale. "You know that you're lucky your best sparrin' partner comes an' drinks with you every time you get miserable over screwin' up with a wench, right? Hellgates," Sunstreak said, giving a lilting, chittering and clear laugh, "at this point, I think I've had more drinks with you than any damn female." _

_He roughly knocked the back of his fist against Dipper's shoulder, but it was done with a definite fondness. Sunstreak looked at him with dry amusement and sympathy— and a bit of exasperation._

"…_you're a terrible bastard when it comes ta keepin' ahold of some'un for more than a 'un night stand, you know that?"_

"_Oh, rut off," Dipper growled, but there wasn't quite the same amount of sulk to his posture as before, and he was sitting up straighter with less bristling fur. He took another gulp of ale and resisted the urge to elbow Sunstreak in the ribs, since the ferret was drinking. He didn't feel like choking his only company at the moment. "…an' yeah, I know. About both of those thin's."_

_Sunstreak gave him a grin._

_Dipper had to crack half of one back._

* * *

If there was anything that made Dipper miss the scattered trees and sandy stretches of dirt of the tribe grounds, and the low-key shades of green that made up the forest and underbrush that were scattered around the thin, winding creeks and tough basket reeds, it was constant traveling in northern Mossflower— a forest which was the exact opposite.

It nothing had to do with the traveling aspect. Dipper was used to traveling. Hellgates, he _lived _on it. The tribe only stuck to a certain patch of ground and territory, not one spot; they weren't as tied down as the woodlander settlements. It wasn't uncommon for them to drift from one prominent camp of theirs to the next, carryin' their brats and bundled possessions against their tattooed backs as they went, and singin' a Juska folksong to give warning to others that the bloody Raths were on the move.

And Dipper traveled even when he was staying still.

He traveled between females, he traveled between adding more tattoos and fights— the former bein' thanks to that jilted deal Anscom had made about clan markings with Zenrisk; Dipper didn't think the stoat had forgiven his sly warrior for outfoxing him yet— and he traveled from homes and relationships whenever he was uprooted and forced to move.

The one thing that was worth holdin' tight to was friends, Dipper thought. If anything, they were his goddamn version of a haversack and the daggers he carried with him from place-to-place: travel all you want, but you muckin' need the essentials close to you to stay alive.

But lately, the weasel admitted, he was traveling between what he had left of his living friends and acquaintances far too much. Sunstreak had been the last solid ground. Throw in all the muck with Tabliz, and everything afterwards had just started sliding out from under him like the collapsing cliffs of shale Dipper had seen scattered all over the forest.

_Well, _Dipper thought, watching Slipgale's waist sway with each of her steps— and Rangar walk with a near swagger, while Anscom slipped along like a clever eel through the trees— _maybe not scumsuckin' everything._

The weasel reached up, adjusting the knot of the cloak around his neck with annoyance. He was used to wearing cloaks or covers when it rained, and the sky was threatening to darken, but Dipper damn well liked havin' his back bare, thank you very much. All the same, once they'd left Juska territory, each one of them had put on cloaks at one point or another. There was nothing that would get somebeast shot faster by a slaggy woodlander or coddled Mossflower vermin than a set of Juskan tattoos— something that Dipper and Anscom had figured out very, _very _painfully in the first leg of the journey.

The two warriors now had a few identical wounds along their lower backs and legs, some new sour memories of squirrels, and it was a requirement that they cover themselves up at all times. Dipper was still a bit jilted that Rangar and Slipgale had not applied that scumsucking rule to themselves. Apparently, he an' Anscom got it because 'you two are the flashiest.'

With a rustle of leaves and a last burst of laughter, Rangar dropped back from walking with Anscom to fall into step next to Dipper. The young stoat stretched his arms, momentarily wriggling his red tattoos.

"Holdin' up alright back 'ere, Dipper?"

"You wouldn't want ta be bloody talkin' ta me if I wasn't," Dipper said. He resisted the temptation to kick away a chunk of stray sandstone. He was startin' to get tired of the streaks of the red rock everywhere… though to be honest, some of the cliffs cut into the hillsides and pocket caves were pretty. _They're the color of blood. _"Done harassin' Anscom?"

"Close enough," Rangar said. His ears perked when a bird twittered above his head and burst out of the tree to fly to another, and for a moment, Rangar was alert and dangerous. An instant later, the joking and friendly son of Zenrisk was back. "'e finally got tired of arguin' about where the Taggerung could be an' me mockin' the last time he was drunk, so 'ere I am."

Rangar gestured in Dipper's general direction. Dipper— seeing him without a cloak— snidely reached over and tugged on some of Rangar's shoulder fur.

"Yeah, 'ere you are, an' lackin' the cover you need ta keep yourself hidden from slimesnortin' woodlanders."

Rangar swatted his paw away, and were he a few seasons younger, Dipper had no doubt the stoat would be sticking his tongue out at him now.

"Come on, you're still not sore about that, are you?" Rangar said, raising his eyebrows as Slipgale moved up to keep closer to Anscom. The stoat was unable to hide his smirk as he spoke. "You an' Anscom are the 'uns who got all those warrior tattoos even down in places where the sun doen't shine; you shouldn't be surprised if a bunch of squirrels try ta shoot you right in the—"

"An' you're the 'un who was blabberin' on ta me for hours after your first rite of passage about how you wanted ta look like both of us," Dipper shot back, giving his own fanged grin at the look on Rangar's face, "so you shouldn't be surprised if you're too yellow-streaked ta go through with 'un of your ideas."

Rangar waved his paw dismissively at the taller weasel, taking up a look of lofty arrogance he'd inherited straight from his mother. "I thought better of it; I was young an' stupid. You an' Anscom might've been squeezin' the deal with my dad for all it was worth, but I din't feel like lettin' Crimin stick a needle inta me again, especially not after what 'e did with just my base markin's for my bloodin' rite."

"You little sonuvawhore, I see what you're implyin' about us in your first words there," Dipper said gruffly. Rangar snickered. "For me, not true."

"I'd like ta think I'm a fully grown an' handsome sonuvawhore, thank you very much, bastard," Rangar said, giving a shimmy of his shoulders and strutting for a moment. Dipper rolled his eyes and stepped around a slanted tree to keep from getting separated from Rangar. He made sure not to break any branches or ruffle any bushes. They were still heading towards the quarrylands farther north Atiya had told them of; there was no sense in leaving a trail for anybeast to pick up. "An' I notice you're not defendin' Anscom 'ere," Rangar said. The fox's ears perked up in the front at the mere mention of his name.

"That's because Anscom _is_ still stupid," Dipper said, watching the fox's back out of the corner of his eye to see his reaction, "an' he wouldn't need any defendin', even when a band of shrews were beatin' his sorry jrakat tail inta the ground."

Rangar gave a quiet whistle, hooking his thumbs into the sides of his kilt. "Now that's harsh, Dipper," Rangar said casually. He was watching Anscom just as discreetly as Dipper was.

"Of course I don't need defendin'," Anscom said, turning his head over his cloaked shoulders to look back at the two mustelids while still walking. "However, I would say that you do when an squirrel is firin' an arrow inta the back of your thigh an' makin' you dive for cover— 'o an aforementioned shrew is buryin' a dagger inta your chest," Anscom said casually. He glanced down at the gnarled circle of scar tissue right below Dipper's ribs. "How'd that heal up, by the way?"

Dipper's face burned when he recalled Anscom driving his toes into his wound during the sparring match before they left the Juska camp. The weasel chose to crack his knuckles as Slipgale rolled her eyes in exasperation up front.

"I dunno," Dipper said, keeping a straight face, "but better than that goddamn crippled shoulder of yours, I think. How's that _still_ healin' up, by the way?"

"If you two are goin' ta have a pissin' contest," Slipgale said dryly, "kin you wait 'til I'm not here? 'O at least until we have the Taggerung along with us ta even out the numbers a bit more?"

Rangar looked excited at the mention of the Taggerung again, but he frowned in confusion at Slipgale's comment as the ferret adjusted the pack of rations on her back.

"What a minute, what do you mean, 'until we have the Taggerung along with us ta even out the numbers a bit more'? You're still goin' ta be the only female 'ere."

"I hate ta break your brain, Rangar," Slipgale said, giving a purposeful sway of her hips to emphasis the coiled bolas and dagger hanging from her belt, "but there _is_ such thing as a female warrior. 'O a Taggerung."

Rangar gaped at her a moment before recovering, but it wasn't enough to keep Dipper from stifling a low rumble of laughter in his throat, or to prevent Anscom from hiding one of his sneaky grins in his cloak.

"I knew that," Rangar said, crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows in a perfect imitation of Zenrisk. Dipper could sense Anscom having another quiet smirk. "The Juskatar and Juskareja had Trian the Bloody an' Phenline the Swift; female Taggerungs do exist. There just en't that many of them. I wouldn't be expectin' 'un."

"Kin you name the last female Juska_rath _Taggerung_?_" Slipgale said. "'O the last 'un of our Taggerungs which wasn't a filthy woodlander 'o a pathetic traitor's offspring who tried ta push themselves inta the role? Ruggan Bol not included."

"Well, no," Rangar admitted. "Ta both of those. An' I don't think we've ever had 'un, really."

"Then obviously, the Rath males are doin' somethin' wrong," Slipgale said. "Fate might have finally figured out ta give the role ta some'un who knows how ta do it right."

There was a pause.

"…if she's a stoatmaid, you're not allowed ta screw 'er," Dipper said. Slipgale made a choking sound of amusement.

Rangar whipped his head around and stared.

"_What? _Dipper, why the 'ellgates did you immediately think of—"

"I have to agree with Dipper on this one," Anscom said, glancing at the trail they were following and to make sure it was still taking them around the edges of the vermin settlement coming up. The rougher and shoddier quarry towns about the area provided more cover, but they muckin' well didn't want to walk straight into a den of mice an' archer squirrels. "Seein' the way you've been goin' on an' on about the Taggerung an' flatterin' an' admirin' a beast that we're not even sure exists yet, I wouldn't put it past you ta try ta take your admiration ta another level."

_Sometimes,_ Dipper thought, _I scumsuckin' hate him for it, but at others, I love that damn fox's straight face._

Rangar was trying to judge whether solemn Anscom was being serious or not, but it was a quiet throat clearing from Slipgale that pushed him down the slippery slope.

"Oh, _come on,_" he growled, "who in all flamin' 'ellgates would try ta screw a Taggerung? That's like tryin' ta get mated with a tame wolverine: they might be a good fighter an' a mostly loyal follower, but you don't want them sharin' a bed 'o 'ome with you unless you'd like ta be gutted. No 'un does that— no 'un sane, at least. Stop lookin' at me that way."

"Well," Slipgale said, stepping over a chunk of wayward shale as the trees began to thin, "havin' a death wish for who ta tie the knot with happens ta be part of your bloodline in particular— your father went an' mated your mother, din't he?"

Rangar gave Dipper a look for the howl of laughter that practically burst out of the weasel's chest. Anscom escaped by the sheer fortitude to remain stoic.

Mostly.

"She does have a point," Anscom said, unable to keep quiet or prevent from showing a few sharp teeth tips in his grin. "Whoever thought that bondin' up with 'Lady' Brielle was a good idea had ta be cracked, especially since—"

"Goddamnit, don't any of you _dare_ ta start tellin' that nickname story again," Rangar said, throwing his paws up in exasperated despair. "I've been told where that 'Lady' part of my mom's name came from _a thousand fraggin' times,_ you 'ear me? A _thousand._ An' if I have ta 'ear it again—"

Whatever declaration or threat Rangar was about to make was drowned out as the sky gave an ominous rumble. The Juska looked up to see the sun vanishing beneath a creeping shroud of dark clouds, and the blue heavens began to morph to a slate grey. All the slate and sandstone cliffs and protrusions around the forest themselves began to fade to darker, more unwelcoming shades as the clouds devoured the sunshine, and the red sandstone lost its bright appearance to become the color of stale pooled blood. Dipper felt an oncoming breeze ripple through the treetops and rustle his fur and the leaves. He could smell a storm in the air.

Rangar blinked as something hit him on the nose. The stoat raised his paw. There was another quiet plop as a water droplet landed on the edge of his palm, trailing down the side of it.

Anscom immediately gave a quiet curse beneath his breath, untying his cloak from around his neck and pulling it up to make a hood over his face and head. By the time the fox had retied his cloak and Dipper had felt a drop of water drip down on his temple and draw a cool line down the side of his face, the sky was growling with thunder and splitting open.

In five seconds flat— no longer than it took Slipgale to snap an opponent's neck with her bolas or for Dipper to gut one— the clouds were weeping on them.

"Finally!" Rangar said, turning his face skyward as the rain soaked his fur down. "It's been so dry up 'ere, I was startin' ta believe it never rained."

Slipgale moved a few steps back beneath the sparse, outreaching branches of a tree, but she blinked slowly and let the rain trail down her shoulders and face. Dipper unfastened his cloak and proceeded to stuff it into his bag, spreading his arms and lifting his face to feel the cool downpour. The water rolled down his heavily tattooed shoulders and trailed over his equally marked-up back.

Hellgates, he thought, but that felt _good _after days on days of traveling.

From nearby, Anscom watched the rain drops running down Dipper's relaxed arms and body with marked disgust. The fox withdrew a little further into his makeshift hood and closed his cloak front with insistent claws, making sure neither of his arms or paws got into the rain. The visible tip of his frazzled tail and lower haunches turned damp. Anscom grimaced at the sensation, but voiced no complaint.

"From what I kin tell— an' judgin' by what we got out of that squirrel— there's the outskirts of a small vermin trade an' minin' town up ahead," Anscom said, speaking up when he had tolerated enough of his other companions lounging about in the rain. "We should be able ta get minimum shelter an' directions ta this… _northern sandstone _place Atiya seemed so enamored with. Assumin' the scattered Juska she met are still livin' there, they probably have the Taggerung."

Rangar shook off some of the water clinging to his face. There was a dim rumble of thunder. The stoat's eyes lit up in a vivid, near fanatical excitement Dipper couldn't pull level with unless he lost his dagger in a fight.

"Dependin' on 'ow close we are," Rangar said, trying to keep his voice calm, "we might be in the land 'carved with red stone' already. An' seein' the prophecy called for a storm—"

"Called for lightnin', Rangar," Slipgale corrected. "An' while we have a storm, I'm not seein' any of that. Methinks it may just be regular 'un, like the past three."

A burst of thunder rolled through the whole dark, grey lighting-less sky just to scumsuckin' punctuate her point.

Rangar glanced up at the clouds, an' Dipper could see him mucking begging for a bolt of lightning. But the stoat swallowed his enthusiasm and pushed down his faintly rising fur, though the feeling didn't quite leave his eyes.

"True enough," Rangar said. He combed some of his wet headfur with his paws before stepping forward, the damp ground softly squelching beneath his feet. "C'mon, let's go. We might as well make it ta the town an' get some information. No use in keepin' Anscom out in rain, huh?" he said lightly.

Anscom said nothing, reaching up his cloak-draped paw to pull his hood down further. He, Slipgale, and Dipper followed Rangar down the trail, all of them slowly getting more and more sodden.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the rickety, scattered town built on stilts of wood and rock, all of the Juska were soaking wet, even the cloaked Anscom. The fox was still clinging to the patches of dryness he possessed, even as the quartet paused warily at the mouth of the settlement.

Dipper wiped some of the water from his eyes, scanning over the empty dirt streets. He let a paw hang casually over his dagger hilt as they began to walk in.

The weasel had seen different homes and buildings from when he first ventured out of Juskan turf, but as he looked at the so-called 'mining town' that was sitting in front of them like the tripesuckin' carcass of a fish left to melt in the sun, he had to wander how the Hellgates beasts called this home.

There were none of the study but movable tents and shacks of the Juska that were covered in pawprints of dye and held together by pegs of wood and clever slights and stretched ropes. All of the buildings were set up in undulating, patchwork waves of stiff rock and chipped wooden carapaces of walls. Thick skeletons of stone were coated in wood and thatch, and occasional window boxes of flowers or vegetables were set here and there to weakly attempt and make them more presentable. They were as goddamn approachable as half-peeled apples left to the flies, Dipper thought. Nothing was arranged in the natural, circular and scattered way of the Juska camp; everything was shoved into lines.

Occasional hanging signs jutted out from the places that must've been shops or alehouses, but as Dipper edged by them, he sure as crowfood couldn't tell the difference between them and the homes other than the scrawled images of tankards, anvils, or forks on the signs. It didn't help that he couldn't read. Everything was stacked— there wasn't only one floor, and that was it; every building except a few miserable slumps inserted here and there went up to two floors. Overhanging slate-stone ceilings let water drip down from them to form miserable, sodden curtains right in front of every entrance.

How the hell did beasts live like this? Dipper sure as snot didn't know. There was a stinkin' different between lying_ next to_ and _with _your family on the ground and woven mats and blankets in your lodge, and being heaped _over_ strangers in apartments like writhing, living versions of the corpse piles left over from a horde raid's slaughter of prisoners.

Cracked pieces of broken glass and tankard, melted smokes paper, fish ribs, apple cores, tufts of fur, and discarded flasks lined the thin gutters of the streets in washed-out increments. It was the debris of a big damn celebration somebeast else had thrown in a home that wasn't theirs, and then strutted out to leave the apathetic host to clean. Dipper swore he caught a glimpse of a few dirtied ribbons or coiled up frilly garter-_things_ buried in here an' there in the trash, especially outside of some of the more rundown buildings with well-worn steps and tiny windows. He had a suspicion that some of the illegible words on those signs should've just said 'whores' instead of whatever they did already.

If this was what the woodlanders were sneerin' about when mouthy ones started calling Juskan life savage when compared to 'civilization', then Dipper had never been goddamn prouder to be a savage.

But while all that trash an' mining town filth was probably normal, Dipper thought, what sure as hell _wasn't_ normal was the fact that half of the building doors were closed, while others hung open— and that fact that there wasn't a single damned soul to be seen.

The weasel could already feel himself getting more and more uneasy as they passed by one stacked house or shop after another, and no one came to meet them in the rain. Frag, there weren't even lights in the windows or spilling out in thin cracks from below the closed doors— and the open ones were darker than depravity. There weren't lights anywhere.

Dipper felt something bump his foot. The weasel looked down. He was greeted by the sight of a broken tankard lying in front of his toes. It lay miserably in the rain.

"Dipper," Rangar whispered. The weasel looked up. He narrowed his eyes as he spotted the awkward, fractured silhouettes of something lying in the street up ahead. Anscom and Slipgale were already abreast them.

Then Dipper got closer with Rangar, and he realized what they were.

"What the bleedin' 'ellgates—"

Tankards. The entire street was filled with goddamn tankards. And not just them, Dipper realized— broken buckets, canteens, and cups. Anythin' that could hold water or a drink of any kind had the absolute tripe beat out of it until it was nothing but wooden splinters lying in the road.

They were greeted by a wench-load of tankards and mucked-up buckets stretching down the entire footprint-stomped street, and yet there wasn't a damn beast in sight, vermin or woodlander.

"There's somethin' wrong here," Anscom muttered, the fox backing up to confer with the rest of the Juska. He kept his sharp eyes open and moving, watching the expanse of the empty street in the rain. All of the warriors pressed themselves back-to-back to speak instead of getting in a huddle together and leaving their pelts exposed. Rangar drew his dagger, keeping his eyes fixed on one of the openly hanging doors to a nearby tenement.

As he looked at the entrance, Dipper suddenly had a realization about why all the open doors were reekin' unsettling him so much— none of them looked forced open. Some of them had claw marks or slivers of wood ripped out of the sides, but they hadn't been busted inwards, like they would have been under a raid or attack. They were just openly hangin' there in the rain. Like the beasts living inside hadn't bothered to close them after a certain point.

The one Rangar was staring at was actually lined with deep claw marks and scratches on the _inside_ of the door.

"We need ta get out of 'ere," Dipper said, greatly disturbed. His wet fur was trying to bristle, and ended up sticking everywhere in messy spikes. The weasel shifted his eyes from left to right, looking for any spot of movement as he wrapped his paw around his dagger hilt. "The sooner, the better."

"We need information," Rangar argued, tearing his eyes away from the open door to look at Dipper. "There's not goin' ta be another vermin town around for leagues; the rest are further south 'o woodlander. An' if we try goin' there—"

"Rangar, there's no 'un here ta ask about information," Anscom pointed out, tucking his muzzle farther beneath his cloak. Dipper could see his eyes faintly glowing in the cloth shadows. "There are just these houses, an' if there's a plague 'o somethin' about, we shouldn't be goin' in them."

"Agreed," Dipper said hoarsely. He could already feel his heartbeat picking up the longer he stayed in the middle of the cursed street filled with broken cups and buckets and trash the residents had never gotten the chance to clean. "We need ta be movin' our snakemuckin' tails ta somewhere else."

The entire time the three males had been talking, Slipgale had been narrowing her eyes at an open door not two buildings down from the one Rangar had been looking at. It wasn't lit, just like the others, but the longer the ferret stared into its dark depths, the more she frowned. She eventually broke away from the back-to-back conference and advanced towards it, keeping her guard up at the same time.

When Slipgale got in front of the door— just enough to be out from beneath the overhanging roof and still in the rain— she studied the entrance and steps before catching sight of something else. She stared.

Anscom and Rangar were still arguing when Slipgale began to move. Dipper, who had noticed her actions, had come a bit closer to her.

"Dipper," Slipgale said, finally speaking up. Dipper looked up at her. Slipgale was slowly backing away from the open door with one calm, measured step after another. She was staring into its black depths at something and refusing to blink or look away.

"Get Anscom an' Rangar," she said, her voice far, far too calm. She continued to stare at something in the darkness of the home. Her paw had come down to grip her dagger. "Tell 'em we need ta leave."

Dipper glanced to the right. Rangar and Anscom had vanished. He could see both of them a few buildings down looking at something in an alley juncture.

"They're over there lookin' at somethin'," Dipper said, watching her back further and further from the home. He had already drawn his own dagger.

"I don't care; get 'em. We need ta leave," Slipgale said. "_Now._ Afore the rain stops."

Dipper frowned at the tone of her voice, and he slunk closer, going into a half crouch. Slipgale immediately moved towards him, sidestepping her way down the road instead of turning her back. Her wet fur was on end, just as messy as Dipper's— if not more— and her ears were starting to pin.

"Slipgale," Dipper said, a quiet growl to his voice as he tried to catch a glimpse at whatever was in the darkened room, "I still don't understand what you're—"

"Dipper, when the rain stops, the streets are goin' ta be open," Slipgale said, a hoarse strain to her voice. "An' we're goin' ta be in the middle of them."

At first, Dipper still didn't understand. Then he caught a glimpse of the hunched beast inside the murky doorway before it skittered out of view on all fours, and the realization hit him. The weasel slowly went into a defensive position, curving his sharp and scarred dagger to be poised to strike. He swallowed down the internal scream inside him and the aggressive spike of adrenaline. Dipper automatically turned and pressed his back against Slipgale's so that they were each facing opposite sides of the street.

"'ow many do you think there are?" Dipper said, keeping his voice level. Raising it would do no good. He kept his eyes fixated on the open door almost across from him… and let it drift down to the five other open doors to its right. That didn't count the amount stretched along the left.

"Twenty, 'ere," Slipgale said, keeping her voice just as calm. She was specifically watching the door she had backed away from. Dipper could feel her back muscles tensing. "That's just countin' the buildin's on this street an' assumin' there's a small family in each 'un. I'm makin' guesses. From the looks of thin's, the whole town has it, so maybe sixty in all, maybe less. Some of 'em are bound ta have killed an' swallowed each other down at this point; all the cubs have probably been eaten. That might bring it down ta forty total."

"That's goddamn forty too many," Dipper said. He reached behind him without turning and tapped Slipgale on the waist. She mutely followed his signal and began to move along with him, allowing them to make it down the street to Anscom and Rangar while still being on the defense. Both of them still had their daggers bared.

Dipper had originally developed the little taps and signals to be able to fight back-to-back with Sunstreak— 'o to be able to communicate with him during an ambush— but since Sunstreak and Slipgale had been close friends who ended up fighting together more often than not when Dipper was off on a rampage, the ferret had passed on the signals to her. In turn, she had taught them to Sarck. Slipgale was perhaps the only damn Juska left in the split Rath tribe who Dipper trusted to follow the symbols at his back. Sarck was alright at them.

But Dipper wouldn't want Sarck at his back right now when they were walkin' right in the middle of town filled with beasts stricken with the White Madness.

By the time Dipper and Slipgale had edged back up to Anscom and Rangar, feeling incredibly vulnerable and conscious about their new situation, the fox and stoat wordlessly joined their group with drawn weapons.

"Anscom," Slipgale said casually— though her tone came out more forced than she intended as she rolled her dagger over in her paw— "I think we need ta have a little talk about you mentionin' the plague. Namely, you mentionin' the plague an' jinxin' us."

"I'm aware of the surprises waitin' behind these doors, believe me," Anscom replied, drawing his cloak up to better cover his ears from pesky rain droplets. He had his dagger drawn. "Rangar an' I just finished discoverin' the lovely remains of a weasel— spread out over a whole alley. I think he was foolish enough ta go walkin' about when the cloud cover was still over an' the rain hadn't started. His hungry friends decided ta 'elp themselves."

"So," Rangar said, his voice just a bit weaker than usual, "we kin all agree that we've just walked inta a 'ellhole filled with beasts carryin' the White Madness?"

"We're more fragged than a cheap whore," Dipper said. He paid extra caution to a house with an open door that the Juska were forced to walk right by as they went through the town. They were going to have to bypass it anyway; they might as well cut out extra traveling and go down the middle while they were here. "Also," he added, "seein' 'ey've chucked out everythin' ta do with holdin' water, an' 'ey're at the point where 'ey're terrified of it an' hidin' from the light an' eatin' each other, 'ey're in the last stage. None of them probably know 'ow ta speak anymore. They just understand that 'ey want ta rip the muckin' entrails out of somethin', whether it's livin' 'o not."

"Thanks, Dipper," Rangar said, uneasily backing another step away from the open door of a house he was staring at. "You have a way with words, y'know that?"

Dipper would have replied, but he was cut off by a sudden snarl that echoed throughout the whole town. The weasel almost jumped out of his skin, every last one of the Juska bristled with raised daggers and dropped into crouches, and in another house, a round of shrill screaming and sobbing began.

There was a sickening thump of a body slamming into something, silverware shattering, the sound of claws scrabbling against a door, and a ripping of pelt and flesh. The gurgled scream snapped off at a crescendo, leaving only a muffled reverberation. Something hit the floor— an' then, another quieter tearing of muscle and crunch.

In three seconds, it was over, and there was nothing but the sound of pattering rain as it picked up its tempo.

Dipper stared out into the empty, rain-clouded street, unable to tell where the noise had come from in the aligned mess of apartments and shops. He was breathing harder, and he squeezed his dagger to force the sensation down. He could feel Slipgale doing the same against his shoulder, though her fur was on end enough that it felt like it was tryin' to lift up her very skin with it.

"Some'un isn't pleased about the weather," Anscom said. Rangar jerkily forced himself out of a crouch and gave a snort of unexpected laughter.

"Let's get the bleedin' snakespit out of 'ere," Dipper said, straightening and immediately beginning to stride down the street. Patience could go bugger itself; he was goin' to snap if he had to advance down the street in a cautious crouch the whole time, especiallywhen he damn well knew what was hidin' behind the doors. If the addermuckin' _thing_ that Slipgale had barely managed to back away from was any sign—

_As long as you stay right in the center of the street an' the rain keeps falling,_ Dipper told himself, _you'll be alright._

_If you bleedin' move fast and get out fast._

The other Juska quickly followed suit with no complaint, and Dipper found himself near Rangar and Slipgale once more. Anscom trailed behind him, viewing the rotting town from beneath his hood with sharp, ever-moving eyes, as if his cloak served as a shawl shield against the putridness around him. The fox bore a dagger in his outstretched paw for a guiding light instead of a lantern.

In the distance, a thin white thread of lightning split the horizon.

* * *

A.N: _Goddamn,_ I've missed writing Dipper so much. It feels good to have him back. Now that I have just him and Farflit, this is going to be a breeze. _Yes._ Sorry, Ashclaw and Cinderfang; you can show your tails out and keep them there. I've got my two favorite vermin babies besides Nye and Orch right here— and I don't need anyone else.

As a bonus for this chapter: if you request so in your review, you can get one random question answered by either Dipper or Farflit. Just put their name and an inquiry in there somewhere, and you'll get a reply from your picked character, whether you want to harass Farflit with questions about how much of a pudgy, fluffy little brat he was when he was younger, or ask Dipper about his Juska heritage or relationship goof-ups (though I would really recommend harassing Farflit.)

Thanks for reading,

—SL


	16. Chapter 13

"_Dipper Unrath, come forward."_

_Dipper blinked when he heard the low, rumbling voice emit from the lodge ahead of him. His companions around him quieted. The weasel stood up from the waiting line of assembled young Juska. He could feel his heart pound a few spare beats as he got up and left them behind, and all of the other Juska's eyes followed him until he disappeared into the entrance._

_It was time._

_The young weasel found himself standing before an older, rough-faced rat with piercing eyes who was sitting with crossed legs on the lodge floor. His pinkish paws held a spindly bone needle— one of many that were piled next to him— and his fingers and his tail were covered in strings of old Juskan glyphs Dipper didn't recognize. He was the tattooing shaman; it figured that he would bare something from the past. But the shaman wasn't the only one present for the ceremony. Standing in the corner with crossed arms was the much younger, but not any less fiercer, Zenrisk Rath._

_Dipper tried not to betray unease as he respectfully bowed his head to both of them. Crimin completely ignored his brief glance at Zenrisk. The new chieftain was there to observe the rite of passage, nothing more; he would have no part in it. In another part of the camp, Brielle Rath served as the chieftain eyes for the females undergoing their blood marking rites. Neither she nor Zenrisk would do anything but watch the ceremonies._

"_Dipper Unrath," Crimin continued, speaking in a voice deeper and darker than sin, "you have been brought before your tribe ta show your blood and your steel and become one with your precedin' warriors. Do you have the blood?"_

"_Yes, shaman," Dipper said, upturning his face. The smeared blood stripes across his cheeks from the first opponent he had ever slain had dried into dark, crimson smears. He had painted over his face markings with it._

"_Turn," Crimin commanded. _

_Dipper did so, revealing his back. He had been bruised and cut from wrestling down the otter warrior and pounding in his throat, but all the same, Dipper could proudly show his set of near completed tattoos. The Rath tribe's markings were two long lines down the back that curved inward towards the spine at the waist before splaying out again, and they were matched by dual tattoos over the torso that came to a stop beneath the slope of the hips. Any particular family markings were added right over the shoulder blades or on the upper arms._

_Dipper had every last piece of the tattoos on him, accumulated through one rite of passage and birthday after another, starting when he was five seasons old. One season meant one more piece. One more season of survival, training, and running meant getting one step closer to obtaining what Dipper had been waiting for over ten seasons, and the weasel could feel his heart squirming in his chest as Crimin eyed his markings._

_He had all the sections. But they were fractured lines and curves split up into individual tattoos, and none of them were connected. They were an un-bridged trail… until yesterday._

_Dipper had inked in the several gaps himself not a day earlier with the fallen otter's blood._

_Crimin gave a quiet grunt, apparently finding Dipper's achievements acceptable, and he gave another wave of his paw. The weasel turned back around, feeling like an obedient cub forced to toe the line. Crimin tapped the long bone needle against his own ink-swirled knuckles._

"_You have fought and shed another's blood and your own ta complete your markings," Crimin continued. To anyone but a Juska, he was speaking in a convoluted, foreign tongue of tribal words and swears. Dipper knew the language like his own pulse. "By survivin' and pushin' away the call of Vulpez and beneath, and feedin' them another, you have proven yourself worthy. Show your weapon of survival. Do you have the steel?"_

_Dipper, suddenly feeling hesitant and naked without his dagger, lifted and spread his own paws. Crimin raised his eyebrows at him._

"_You have no weapon?"_

"_No, shaman," Dipper said. He had to struggle not to avert his eyes. Was this against the rite? "They told me not ta bring anythin' but the damn blade I won the fight with. I din't have my dagger with me."_

_Crimin glanced down at Dipper's spread palms and the faded traces of crusted blood over the edges of his claws. Zenrisk leaned in with some interest as Crimin muttered an old Juska word for 'bloodwrath' beneath his breath._

"_You killed him with your bare paws."_

"_Yes," Dipper said. He screwed his mouth shut, hoping the shaman wouldn't see past one little lie. He had used a bit more than his claws, but he sure as Hellgates just wasn't going to stand there with his mouth hanging open and teeth on display until Crimin told him to close up._

_The rat's eyes roved over Dipper and his jaws one last time, as if he knew he was being fed a small falsehood, but Crimin gestured him forth anyway. A pounding relief went through Dipper as he knelt in front of the shaman and turned his back towards him. The weasel felt a rough wet cloth being applied to the temporary links he had drawn between his shoulder tattoos and back ones, wiping away the crusted blood._

"_Young warrior," Crimin said, cleaning away the patches of maroon from Dipper's shoulders, "as of today, you become part of the Juskarath, and you take a step forward ta becomin' a male. The name 'Unrath' no longer belongs to you."_

_Dipper felt a thrill at hearing Crimin strip away his cubhood title, but it was immediately replaced by burning pain when the ink-loaded needle was shoved beneath his skin. Dipper clenched his fangs together to keep from choking._

_Crimin continued reciting some ancient Juska ceremonial chant the entire time he was cleaning away the ties of blood and replacing them with ink. He neatly striped on the layer of permanent dye on the fur afterwards. For Dipper, it all blended together. He had never been tattooed and marked this many times in so many different places at once, and by the time Crimin finished delivering his chant and inked in the last— and eighth— tattoo section on the weasel's hip to complete the tribe markings, Dipper's entire back was throbbing with inflamed agony._

_Finally, Crimin put down the bloodied cloth he had been cleaning Dipper with and the needle that had been buried in his back earlier. He shoved them away into a dirtied pile of other bone needles and sullied cloths._

"_Rise. May your feet an' your markin's carry you far as your battle lust… Dipper Juskarath."_

_Dipper was barely able to follow the rat's order to stand. His poked skin burned and screamed. Dipper gritted his teeth and remained silent. The weasel bowed his head to the shaman, gave another bow of his head to Zenrisk, and left out the other side of the lodge with his head held high._

_Outside the lodge, he passed by the observing form of the shawl-wrapped and bone decorated seer Atiya Fatewinder without so much as waving to her. Atiya returned the favor, watching him without truly acknowledging him. She had witnessed generations and generations of warriors being blooded and inked, and Dipper was just another one of the masses. But Fate was inclined to be favorable when a blooding rite of passage was done with the presence of a seer watching the new warriors emerge._

_As Dipper left to join his other peers which had finished their rites, he could hear Crimin's voice calling out again._

"_Anscom Unrath, come forward."_

_Dipper grimaced as his back ached, and he could feel every last sting and swollen spot where the bone needle had been beneath his skin. Every last bit of the connecting stripes screeched at him when he moved, and combined with the bruises and strained muscles from the earlier fight, Dipper knew he wouldn't be able to lie down on his back comfortably for days._

_But it was one Hellgates of a sixteenth birthday present._

* * *

Apparently, the White Madness infested mining town was far mucking longer than Dipper or anybeast else had given it credit for, because the Juska found themselves still walking down its dirtied and wet streets long after they had expected to leave it.

Dipper grimaced at his place in the lead as they passed by the shattered remains of a door, and the weasel adjusted his dagger. Near him, Slipgale stalked down the street, and Rangar lingered close to her and Dipper— though not close enough to hinder any combat. Anscom kept his distance from all of them, slinking along beneath his cloak with far greater finesse than any sickbeast, though he shared some of their predatory element. The fox still made sure to stick close enough to the group to not be picked off, in case one of the maddened beasts decided to burst out of a nearby house in the rain after all.

The town wasn't built a circle, Dipper thought. It was a squished oval with mucking long streets that rolled over the slight hills beneath the foundations. But they had to be near the damn end of the scumpool at this point.

The rain kept pouring over the torrid grey hole of a town. It was now accompanied by bolts of wayward, jagged lightning. The black insides of the open doors were occasionally lit up, revealing hunched over, raggedly breathing silhouettes.

All of the Juska knew better than to look at them at this point.

Rangar was sniffing to blow some water out his nose when a long, drawn-out gurgling sound came from the nearby broken window.

He immediately tensed, going on guard and turning his back towards Anscom. Dipper moved towards the other side of the street while trying not to get too close to the homes on the opposite side.

"What the 'ellgates is it now?" Rangar muttered, narrowing his eyes and slipping into a defensive position. Slipgale's fingers twitched towards her bolas, sorely wishing for the longer range weapon… though it would be made useless by the fact that she would have to untangle it from a sickbeast's bloody, infected neck after using it once.

Dipper eyed the newest hellhole next to them. It was the same as the others he had seen so far. It was only two floors, like the rest of the buildings, and it was covered in the same goddamn pathetic wood shell as its neighbors. The windows on it were square and grim— a few of them bearing broken down plant boxes, complete with dead daises or squashed rotting… fruit things— and if they weren't broken out, they were covered by a barricade, or splattered with enough blood and grime to make them muckin' unusable. A chipped sign hung off the side of the building with the picture of lantern on it.

It took the weasel a second to realize that the base room he was looking into through a shattered window had no less than ten sickbeasts in it, and five of them were lying in gutted piles around a clawed up and battered door. There also happened to be one dangling out of the window right above Anscom's head.

Anscom bit back a snarled curse and almost flew out of his fur as he jumped back, but Rangar had already assessed the sickbeast and moved on to worrying about the others. The one hanging from the window was dead, Dipper thought. It was a fox with a glass shard or two buried in its face and rot-swollen eyes, and its throat was practically hanging into the sagging plant box below it. It was maggot food.

The limping, drooling beasts that were snapping at each other in the remains of broken furniture and overturned tables and lingering outside the clawed-up door, however, were far from stinkin' dead yet.

"We need ta move," Slipgale whispered, backing up in appall. Dipper tried not to stare at the ragged, gnawed-up forms of the once-vermin inside the building. The rat closest to them no longer had his ear or half his face; a raw tract of stringy red flesh hung down where his eye had been like strings of frothy saliva hung down from his mouth. He was insistently grooming something damp and slippery off his paws and arms. "Dipper, Rangar, _now—_"

The once-ferret in the middle of the room that had half its right leg plucked and mauled into a scabby heap gave a feral scream and threw itself against the battered door.

Rangar and Dipper started, almost taking off down the street with bristling fur, and the ferret slammed against the door that was surrounded by scattered dead sickbeasts. With a thud and groan of wood, it bounced off, and there was another frustrated scream as wood splinters buried into its shoulders. The ferret almost fell and slammed its knee into the floor as it slid on the slippery stone, but it pulled itself up with a vengeance.

It tore into the door with its bloodied claws, deepening the scrapes already made, and the second sickbeast that had been lazily kneeling to poke at a carcass leapt to its feet with a snarl and almost crashed into the ferret as it joined in and threw itself at the door. There was another discordant groan of wood.

"There's somethin' behind the door," Rangar realized, staring at the abused door and the clean way several of the untouched— and uneaten— sickbeasts had been killed, slit open from shoulder to hip, "there's somethin' 'ey want."

Dipper froze when he saw a flicker of light from beneath the widened door crack. Anscom noticed it as well, the fox sharply straightening up. And that was the exact goddamn moment when Dipper realized that room's stone floor wasn't wet from any rain, and that one of the barrels in the big line of them pressed against the wall had a spear impaled in it to make sure its contents had poured across the floor, and none of them were holding any _water._

There was another spark from beneath the slowly giving door. Something flickered from the other side. The infected ferret and its companions that could see jerked their heads down with interest, staring at the light. A lick of flame began to spread out from beneath the door, and a blinded weasel in the corner whimpered as it heard the one-eyed rat snarl and back up, dropping down to all fours.

"Run," Anscom said, already backing up with Rangar right in front of him and Dipper and Slipgale seven feet away already, "get away from the damn windows 'o door; _run_—"

The ferret gave a growl, coughing on some blood that was leaking out the side of its mouth, and it swiped a paw at the advancing flame. It was too mucking bad that it wasn't watching its tail, Dipper thought, fight instincts blurring his realizations into fast streaks of thought through his head.

It took five seconds for the oil-soaked ferret and its gnawed-on and bloodied fingers to catch on fire.

At first there was a flash of light, and the scent of burning fur through the haze of rain, and the ferret looked momentarily confused before its slicked paws and sodden fur were alight in orange licks of flame. It gave a hideous, high-pitched scream that was fit to shatter the remaining glass in the unbroken windowpanes, the other sickbeasts abruptly started screaming with it, the Juska's ears ached and their fur went on end as the rat snapped and launched itself at the sobbing weasel in the corner and almost tore its nose off in one bite, and then the ferret was rolling on the floor as the fire spread, and it became nothing more than a screaming and thrashing cocoon of flame.

The entire inside of the room exploded in spreading lantern flames, the smell of burning flesh, and the screaming of the damned as they caught on fire and ripped each other apart. Their screams set chain reactions off across the whole town.

"DIPPER, STOP STARIN' AN' MOVE!" Slipgale yelled, and Dipper snapped himself away from the sight of beasts burning alive and his suddenly harder breathing. He shakily squeezed his dagger hilt as hard as he could, trying to ground himself. A roar of thunder rolled across the sky.

There was a flash of darkness momentarily stifling the flame light as one of the howling sickbeasts clutched at their boiling eyes and tried to shove themselves out the nearest broken window, shattering more glass and clawing shards of it everywhere. The glass pieces drove into its pelt, smearing its thrashing limbs with blood over the flame. A moment later, Dipper saw the battered door within the room that the sickbeasts had been assaulting get thrown open.

The main door burst open a second afterwards, and a coughing and hacking beast wielding a smoky blade dashed out into the street, stumbling in the mud as it put out the sparks on its legs. It scrambled up to its feet before it realized that there was another beast nearby— and an instant later, the nearby Rangar was almost gutted.

"OI!" Rangar roared, deflecting the knife stab with a parry of his own dagger. The hooded beast staggered up, heaving, and it sidestepped Rangar's slice back and tried to lay open his shoulder. Rangar dodged, but he cursed as it lunged forward, almost tearing into his stomach. A flexible arch back of his spine was all that saved him.

_Crack._

The shorter beast flipped its blade around and drove both fists and a knife hilt up into Rangar's chin while he was bending. Rangar drew in a short breath and stumbled in disorientation. He snapped his leg up to kick the other beast in the stomach at the last moment, forcing them to slide across the mud instead of stabbing the blade through his ribs and making short work of his heart. He almost didn't make it in time: the knife slash left behind a shallow carve in his breast. Blood trickled down the side of Rangar's muzzle in the rain and began to creep down his chest.

There was a low hiss as Slipgale pulled free her bolas and threw it with a single arch of her body, and the beast dropped itself to the ground, barely avoiding what would have been a bone-shattering hit to its legs. Mud splattered across its arms and legs from the near miss, and it yelped as one of the bolas coils burned its arms.

It rolled back to balance on its shoulders and drove its feet up into Anscom's arm just in time to prevent the fox from sinking his dagger into its throat, and it completed the backwards roll to get out of his way. It panted in fear as it forced its dagger up from a kneel on the ground to block the fox's next fierce slash, and Dipper— who had dashed over— drove his foot into its lower back. It heaved before slashing behind it, almost taking a sliver from Dipper's hip in the process. Anscom narrowed his eyes as it used a side roll to get out of the way from Dipper's punch at the back of its head, and it moved up in a crouch in the squelching mud, knife poised to take on Slipgale, Anscom, and Dipper at once.

The flaming sickbeasts in the background were still screaming, and Dipper's battle snarl and lunge were forced back down his throat as the sky lit up with a blinding bolt of lightning. The entire town almost turned white. Dipper's eyes were seared by the light.

"WAIT!" Rangar yelled, skidding in the mud as he ran after the beast, barely blocking another one of their jabs as they heaved in exhilaration and tried to escape. Both he and his attacker were the only ones who had closed their eyes during the lightning strike, through cloaked Anscom was recovering quickly. Rangar sheathed his dagger and raised his paws up, panting as he blocked the other beast from running. "Listen ta me, _we're not infected, _we're tryin' ta get out of 'ere," Rangar said. The other beast hesitated, still breathing hard and wildly looking between all of the Juska. Behind them, the sickbeasts still burned alive and screamed, one of them now writhing its last in the street gutter. It had gotten out of the broken window after all.

"If we were infected," Rangar continued— the stoat blurring in Dipper's eyes as the weasel got his vision back again— "we wouldn't be able ta fight you off as well, an' we wouldn't be standin' in the rain. We'd be back there whimperin' with the rest of that maddened mess you burned alive."

To punctuate his point, there was another scream and shattering of furniture as one of the mad beasts on the second floor began to tear into its partner. Dipper could see windows rattling, and the corpse of the fox hanging from the window teetered dangerously. The weasel paid more attention to the living, unhindered threat that Rangar was slowly approaching. Slipgale and Anscom were hanging back.

_Goddanm Vulpez, Rangar, you better know what you're muckin' doin'._

The beast hesitated when Rangar came to a stop in front of it.

"We need ta get out. We're the only 'un sane 'uns 'ere besides you," Rangar said. He ignored the gash across his heart and the blood the rain was washing down his chest in thin trails. The stoat met the other beast's eyes with a simple, ferocious determination. "Are you goin' ta put the knife away an' come with us? 'O are you goin' ta die 'ere with every'un else?"

It stared at his face when Rangar waited for its reply. The beast slowly lowered its knife, staring at him as another lingering crack of lighting and thunder illuminated the stoat's face along with the flaming debris of the lantern shop behind them. Slipgale was grimacing at the sound of burning and tearing flesh as she glanced at the sickbeasts shattering behind them.

The beast dropped its knife paw limply by its side when it got a good look at Rangar's set, almost fiercely composed face.

"Juska?" it whispered.

Rangar blinked in surprise. The beast bent its head, pulling off its rotting and grime-splattered hood. There another roll of thunder, and lightning danced behind the cover of the clouds. Dipper and the rest of the warriors were greeted by the bruised, tired face of a young rat. Eyelashes curled over slate-grey eyes that were almost haunted by lack of sleep, and _her _broad shoulders were covered in wayward burns and splatters of blood, the latter of which the rain was starting to carry away. She was larger and sturdier built than a regular ratmaid, Dipper thought, or rat, period. _Hellgates, if anythin', she looks like a wharf rat._

But that wasn't the reason Rangar made a choking sound in the back of his throat when he saw her, or what made Dipper, Slipgale, and Anscom stare and react similarly.

That was the half-completed Taggerung marking across her face.

"_Find the Halfling Taggerung, and upon triumph you shall feast…"_

Dipper's heart thudded up into his throat. _SONUVAWHORE._

"You're— you're the _Taggerung,_" Rangar said, breaking the silence. He stared in disbelief at the battered ratmaid in front of them, who was being made steadily more uneasy by the howling sobs of sickbeasts. Orange light from the burning building flickered over her fur in the pouring rain. "You're who we've been lookin' for."

The ratmaid looked momentarily confused by the title before she heard Rangar continue. She looked up at him. "Were you? I didn't know. There's been… a lot of beasts lookin' for me lately," she murmured, and suspicion flashed back in her face again as a dying sickbeast somewhere whimpered. Her knife began to rise.

"No, stop; we're not goin' ta hurt you," Rangar said hastily, but he looked disbelieving of his own words, as if he couldn't understand a _Taggerung_ would need reassurance about not being hurt. Some of Rangar's dazed joy and hope suddenly died in his face, and he looked at her sharply. "You weren't bit, were you?"

_Bastard of Vulpez,_ Dipper inwardly cursed, his fur bristling as he eyed the ratmaid. He hadn't thought of that, but now that Rangar mentioned it—

Dipper's blood ran cold about the thought of going back to Zenrisk and Brielle and presenting the tribe nothing more than a sickbeast's pelt… or one of them with the head of the Taggerung. He could feel Anscom lockin' up as the latter idea hit home. The fox tensely flipped his dagger in his paw and slowly began to look at his fellow warrior.

Anscom and Dipper were saved from the tension building when the ratmaid shook her head. "No," she said. "I wasn't bit. But they tried." The ratmaid's eyes became oddly distant, but in a way far more goddamn dangerous and alert than any nostalgia trip. Her fingers tightened around her dagger. "Oh, they damn well tried…"

"Rangar, we need ta get out of 'ere," Slipgale said, breaking in on Rangar's fascinated staring at the rat's face and the rat's odd distant moment. The ferret retrieved her bolas before standing again. "Rain 'o no rain, we've stirred up the nest, an' the sickbeasts en't goin' ta be hidden for long. If some of them are takin' shelter in the woods outside the town, an' we have ta pass by them—"

"I know, Slipgale, I know," Rangar said, giving a dismissive wave, but Dipper could see some of the sharpness back in his eyes. The reminder of the danger had snapped him back to his common sense. The stoat still hesitated as he stepped away, looking at the rat.

"My name is Rangar, an' you— your name," Rangar managed to crack out, his voice refusing to come above a low rasp as he looked at the Taggerung. "At least tell me your name."

"Finnicka," the rat said. She turned her knife blade, letting the rain wash some of the grime off of it. Her long, burn-patched tail lay in the mud behind her. "Finnicka… Juska."

"You two, come on, goddamn move it," Dipper barked, sensing more sickbeasts stirring behind the doors. Like he was moving in a dream, Rangar began to pick up his pace, jogging behind Dipper and Anscom, and Slipgale moved up front for the navigation. After a brief moment of reluctance, the rat followed them. Dipper felt like he'd swallowed a damn rock. He had to force himself to keep from looking back and taking constant glances at the beast behind him, especially the unfinished markings on her face.

"Juska what?" Rangar said, moving beside Finnicka. The band began to pick up their pace in the muck and mud as the storm began to howl steadily louder, and lightning was overshadowed by strengthening winds and the groans of the mining town as the storm pressed down its strength. "Rath?"

"No," Finnicka said. The rat took a breath and looked Rangar in the eyes. Dipper suddenly realized that he was also trying not to stare at the big, sewn-up gash that crept up over the ratmaid's head from where it probably snaked down the entire back of her skull.

"I don't remember," Finnicka said. "I don't remember anythin'."

The whole group of Juskarath almost had a mucking collective heart-attack.

"Y-you don't _remember?_ 'ow kin you damn well not _remember?_" Rangar spluttered, staring at her. It was sheer luck on his part that he didn't trip over a discarded tankard in the street, and the rest of the Juska kept running out of instinct. Dipper spewed out every last goddamn curse he could think of in his head, both in Juska and Mossflower tongue, and Slipgale and Anscom looked ready to either retch or stab their dagger into something.

"You're wearin' half a Taggerung markin' on your face! Some tribe shaman had ta put that on there; some _family _had ta have put that on there, you have ta _remember!_" Rangar practically shrilled, his voice climbing a few octaves.

Dipper was reminded of Taike's wide grin when delivering the prophecy, as if there was a catch, and the weasel just wanted to punch the absent fox in his scumeating-face. _You mucky little bastard, _he thought, his fists clenching over the horrible, sick disbelief roiling in his chest, _you knew there was somethin' wrong!_

Even worse was the second thought that followed and built up to a furious scream in Dipper's chest when he saw Finnicka's face again, and realized she was around four seasons younger than Rangar— but definitely no babe.

_HE HID IT! HE HID THE GODDAMN PROPHECY UNTIL SHE GREW UP! _Dipper roared on the inside, remembering Taike's grinning face, _OR HE HID THE 'UN BEFORE IT!_ _HE MUCKIN' LIED TO __**ALL OF US!**_

While Dipper was having an internal meltdown and struggling with his fury, Finnicka narrowed her eyes, scrunching them up in concentration. Dipper felt like he was watching a stinkin' cub or adolescent instead of the warrior he'd seen merely minutes ago. The rat frowned and held back a flinch over her injured tail dragging over a sharp rock.

"I can't," she admitted. "I know why I'm here, an' I remember those hellspawn sickbeasts cornerin' me for days, but besides knowin' my name an'… those markin's for… what I am… I don't remember anythin' else."

"Try harder," Rangar said, almost pleading.

Finnicka looked over at the rain-soaked stoat's face again, and Dipper found himself locking eyes with her when he glanced back at the wrong moment. For a long second, brown eyes stared at grey ones, and Dipper felt a shudder crawl down his spine. Finnicka's gaze distanced as her eyes slowly roved over all the marked faces of the warriors looking back at her, from clever-faced Anscom to green-chained Slipgale to a beseeching red-marked Rangar, and Dipper felt her look over his face as well. Something seemed to slowly snap and tumble behind her eyes before she was brought back to the present, almost missing a step in her run.

"I— I remember, I remember 'un piece!" Finnicka said, her face lighting up, and Dipper swore she looked more bilgesucking excited than any of them.

"What?!" Rangar said eagerly.

Finnicka smiled, her grey eyes brighter than any lightning-laced cloud in the storm, and Dipper was greeted by partially sharpened teeth.

"I have a little cousin named Janno!"

* * *

A.N: And so there we go. Here cometh the Taggerung, much to all the Juska's horror and relief, and also a character I intend to have a whole lot of damn fun with in the future. Is she all you lot expected? I don't think so. But now, on to character questions (and ha, is Dipper ever popular!)

**1. Out of your entire training experience, what was the part that you struggled with the most? Was it a particular weapon or skill, and how did you get over that?**

Farflit: "Followin' orders beneath any superior... an' remainin' silent to trust their judgement. In Mavern, you were expected to know a range of weapons from the inside out, an' uniform was required the day you hit six seasons an' could attend a basic discipline class. Physical fightin' an' weapons trainin' was no struggle for me. Listenin' to higher ranked beasts I didn't respect was. Mavern drilled obedience into every'un's heads as much as skill, but they also pushed independence an' thinkin': don't be a mindless an' dumb mook; think on yer own. Yer squad commander en't always to be there 'o alive to give you orders.

Seein' Mavern encouraged knowledge, I used it to call out a few stupid decisions 'o two of a... certain superior of mine. More than once. It finally came down to one last confrontation. They told me to shut up; I told them to stop bein' incompetent an' worthless of respect. I got a public chastisement an' the end of my tongue clipped off. It got across the point of rememberin' my place an' bein' quiet well enough."

**2. Will you ever get 'married'? I put that in quotes because I am very broad with this definition (open relationship, paramour, etc).**

Farflit: "The way things are goin' now, no. I have no problem with sleepin' with some'un for benefits only an' little emotional connection, but I don't do open relationships. If some'un is goin' to share a bed with me for longer than a few days, it's goin' to be with me an' me only until either of us ends it, an' I return the favor. Since leaving Mavern, that hasn't happened for a while. I have been… _attached_ to some'un before for a decent amount of time, but that ended seasons ago, an' it wasn't goin' anywhere anyway."

**3. Dipper and his goof-up relationships, as he doesn't appear to be the kind of beast that ever wants to settle down so I would love to see him try or why he thought he had to...**

Dipper: "Why do I keep tryin' ta settle down? Well, I'm not. I kin't think of bein' bonded ta any'un, an' all the fightin' with 'em not bein'— look, sometimes, it's nice ta be able ta rut with some'un, an' then wake up in the mornin' ta find 'ey're still there, an' not because they woke up too late ta run their goddamn tails out. It's not like I want anybeast ta stick around longer than half a season at most with neither of us touchin' any'un on the side an' livin' together. That's gettin' too close ta fraggin' commitment; if it gets ta that point, it's got ta be broke off. But I end up freed an' tryin' again with somebeast else afore half a season anyway, seein' most of the wenches never last past a few months ta start with 'o come back, an' most of 'em end up tellin' me ta go blow Vulpe— I like some goddamn company, alright? There. Bilgesuckin' question answered."

**4. OK, so this goes to Dipstick here. What's with that name? Did yer mom try to 'dip' you in a pond after she saw your ugly face?**

Dipper: "No, but I'm judgin' that yours did that ta you after she came home from a night of whorin', you sludgy piece of muck. An' as for the name— ta be honest, I don't know. Far as I kin tell, my mother loved stargazin', an' there was 'un constellation she was particularly fond of. Bet you kin guess which. I never asked 'er 'o my father ta confirm it, though."

**5. I have girl problems too. Do you mind if I ask you somethin'? How did you trick girls into going on a date or two? I mean, let's face it... No way a girl finds a body all rainbowed up with tattoos very attractive, so what's your secret?**

Dipper: "Why the 'ell does every'un care about me an' the past females?! An' I don't trick any'un. You go up there, tell 'em you're interested, an' ask if they want ta come 'ome with you— usually durin' some drinkin'— an' then see where it goes from there. An' 'ere's a hint: I'm a scumsuckin' _Juska._ We're _all _Juska. _Every last 'un of us has tattoos._ So it en't just the males who are 'rainbowed up' with 'em, as you put it, an' it en't just the males who… _appreciate _what 'ey cover.

Look, I'll give you some advice, because you're a young 'un who obviously en't ever rutted with any'un. Lookin' 'attractive' an' not bein' a complete tripewad? That's only half the reason a female will stay with you. Because if you're better beneath the covers than you are out of 'em, then 'ey're more likely ta stick with you than if it was the other way around. That's why some muckers as ugly as fragged hagfish 'o just as mean end up walkin' around with a damn fine female, by the way."

**6. Do you think killing is fun?**

Dipper: "It depends. But for the most part… I'm not like Anscom. I don't get off on rippin' apart subdued beasts who kin't touch me anymore. But when I'm facin' down another warrior who I damn well know kin kill me, my dagger's gone, we're both bleedin', an' my heart is thuddin' everywhere an' I just feel that _rush _when I know I can sink my teeth inta 'em _an' rip their throat out with my claws an' tear them inta pieces an' kill 'em if 'ey don't kill me first_— yes. Yes, I find killin' fun. But not… quite as much as gettin' there."

Questions are still open for Dipper and Farflit if anyone wants to ask them.

-SL


	17. Chapter 14

_Farflit had known this was coming for a long time, but it still didn't keep a slight squirm from going through his stomach._

_The fox closed another button on his uniform. He tried to ignore how untouched and clean the new dark blue outfit looked in comparison to his previous clothes. This uniform had none of the mending stitches, small bloodstains, or worn cuffs as the previous ones._

_Farflit had a feeling it would be covered in them soon enough when final training and missions began._

_Against his will, the fox took in a reassuring breath and looked up at the square window across from him in the room. He automatically straightened his collar and adjusted his coat without looking down. There would be no weapons allowed at the ceremony. If there had been, Farflit didn't know if he would have been permitted to take his basics dagger or spear— or the dual swords he had been struggling to train with for the past two seasons._

_Aunt Tilda was still holding back in their personal training, despite the fact that she was a harsh and unforgiving dual-wielder herself. Farflit had a feeling something was going to change after this._

_There was a quiet creak of the door, and the face of the vixen Farflit had been thinking of appeared around the corner._

"_Ready?"_

"_Yes, m'am," Farflit said, turning away from the window. Aunt Tilda came into the room dressed in her own uniform, complete with the single silver thread down the edge of the buttons and the rectangular pins across her breast and shoulders that designated her as a captain. In comparison, Farflit's uniform was completely bare. It was fitting; he was going to be sworn into Mavern's official army starting at the lowest rank._

"_At attention, soldier," Aunt Tilda said, and Farflit straightened, lifting his head up and facing forward with rigid shoulders. "Uniform inspection time."_

_Farflit remained poised the entire time as Aunt Tilda came over to examine his attire. She started at his grey feet and went up past the crisp, ironed sides of his uniforms pants, then his untouched blue coat, and up to his collar and his face. Her eyes lingered particularly long on how his shoulders fit into Mavern's official coat without problem any longer, and Farflit felt them observing his face for more than a few moments._

"_At ease," Aunt Tilda said, and Farflit dropped his stiff posture, though he didn't move from his place. "It looks like you didn't mess up today. But be ready for inspection again later. Gettin' it right once doesn't cover the rest of the times."_

_Aunt Tilda's voice was almost lazy, and it held none of the snap that meant that was a threat she intended to follow through later. She never inspected Farflit for uniform tidiness, the grey fox was never disheveled unless he had been pounding someone on the training field, and they both knew it._

_There was a quiet pause between them as both foxes looked each other over. Glancing at Aunt Tilda, Farflit had to admit that she didn't look the same without her weapons hanging at her waist, and the understated lines beneath her eyes and occasional white hair didn't seem quite as hidden as before. She was no less striking and capable, but there were subtle little differences from before._

_When he looked up only to meet her eyes at the same moment she did, Farflit had a distinct feeling that she had just finished looking at him with similar thoughts._

"_We need to leave," Aunt Tilda said, breaking the silence. "Vulpez knows they're not goin' to let you in to swear yer oaths if you get there late."_

"_It wouldn't keep me from swearin' them anyway."_

_Aunt Tilda gave a single low chuckle. "You would try."_

"_Why try when you can succeed?" Farflit said, and he saw the twitch at the corner of Aunt Tilda's mouth when he repeated back the same thing she had said while he had been panting on the training ground floor, disoriented and bleeding profusely out his bruised nose._

"_Keep yer tongue in check, Farflit," Aunt Tilda said._

"_Yes, Captain."_

_Farflit prepared to leave, feeling a slight hum of anticipation in his chest again. He was finally going to become a part of Mavern that did something— and after the next step of core training was over, the opponents he was going to fight weren't just going to be fellow trainees._

"_Good," Aunt Tilda said, shifting her hips. "The last thing you need is a chastisin' in the middle of yer ceremony, an' don't think they won't do that." She paused, glancing over him in full uniform again. From the brief look in her eyes, Farflit became conscious of the fact that he was blocking the light from the window, and he could feel the sun warming against his back and see his defined shadow across the floor._

_Aunt Tilda reached out and laid a paw on his shoulder. She tugged his coat collar, giving him a gruff reminder to stay neat, and looked into his face._

"_Make me proud," she said._

_Farflit's throat tightened. He had no response._

_After a few more moments, Aunt Tilda pulled away and left for the door, and Farflit followed. Both of the foxes headed on towards the induction ceremony. They soon blended into the crowd composed of blue uniforms and bushy tails._

_Soon enough, Farflit found himself in line with twenty other young foxes. All of them wore the same blank, dark blue uniforms. There was a sense of nervousness hanging over a few of them, but it was only evident to those up close. All of them faced forward, including Farflit, and there was a quiet crowd of watchers lingering in the back. If you had family being sworn in, you could watch, but you kept your silence and distance until after the ceremony._

_Farflit focused on scar-throated Drill Instructor Shortig in front of them instead of looking to the left to see Aunt Tilda gathered with the other captains, her arms crossed as she watched._

"_Today," Instructor Shortig said, sweeping his eyes over the assembled foxes, "you are all done with your basic trainin'. Every last one of you has been a piece of Mavern an' part of our settlement an' society. You have pushed yourselves an' your capability to get to this point— but you didn't get here on your strength alone. Your superiors, your trainin' mates, an' your mentors have brought you up to this point as much as your own strength has— if not more— an' Mavern as a whole is the reason you're all standin' here, instead of elsewhere. For the past seasons, Mavern has been givin' to all of you to make you grow an' harden you up. The beasts you are goin' to protect an' fight alongside have been feedin' you an' givin' you boosts. An' now, it's time to give back."_

_Instructor Shortig's gaze flicked over the new soldiers, searching for weaknesses and daring them to show some. He could never snap out of his role as an instructor, Farflit thought, no matter the occasion. But that was to be expected from the fox who had survived being stabbed in the throat by a hordebeast with a glass bottle and then delivered the horde into Mavern's paws._

"_Put your right paws over your hearts," Instructor Shortig said._

_There was a ripple of movement among all the uniformed foxes as did as they were told. Farflit continued to firmly face forward as he followed suit._

"_The followin' oaths will bind you for the rest of your lives an' service. Repeat after me," Instructor Shortig said. He lifted his head up, eyeing those in front of him with a ferocious pride and expectation that had all the presence of a glowing blade pulled from a forge. "I am a part of Mavern that will aid it in any way possible, __an' I vow to give life an' limb to the community an' my fellow soldiers at any cost."_

"_I am a part of Mavern that will aid it in any way possible, an' I vow to give life an' limb to the community an' my fellow soldiers at any cost," the lines of soldiers echoed._

"_I will obey my superiors an' question no order, unless for the well-bein' of all," Instructor Shortig continued, "an' I will protect all innocents an' touch no civilians, regardless of species an' caste."_

"_I will obey my superiors an' question no order, unless for the well-bein' of all, an' I will protect all innocents an' touch no civilians, regardless of species an' caste."_

_Farflit could feel Aunt Tilda watching him._

"_I will have loyalty to Mavern first an' foremost," Instructor Shortig said. An invisible and permanently binding blood oath hung in the air behind his words. Repeat after him now, and you would be signing your name on the line for the rest of your life._

_Farflit looked past Instructor Shortig and met Aunt Tilda's eyes._

"_I will have loyalty to Mavern first an' foremost," he said, just another voice among the other soldiers, and Aunt Tilda gave a near invisible nod, not breaking eye contact with her nephew. Reassurance stronger than steel flooded through his bones._

_Her footsteps were already laid out right in front of his. And Farflit would make himself someone worth following in them if it broke every marrow shard in his body._

_Farflit Anorak— at the half-hardened age of sixteen— was now a soldier of Mavern._

* * *

When Farflit wasn't sleeping or drifting in and out of fuzzy patches of something that could've been sleep, he was burning alive.

The raw splotches of torn flesh along his shoulders throbbed, his muzzle seemed to swell with heat before dying down and then slowly heating again— making the fox feel as if rekindled embers were buried in his skin— and in the dull background of all the burning, and light and dark ebbing past his eyes, ripples of pain went through his back and head each time he moved.

_Farflit Anorak, combat soldier; Mavern, squad fifteen._

Farflit kept burning and burning and burning, and no matter how hard he exhaled to try and force the heat out, it stayed beneath his sickly matted fur and ate up his wounds with all the strength of the Mossflower summer sun. When he could see, he had shoved off the white blurs tangled around him that seemed to magnify the heat, causing a burst of sound to come from the few dark figures that crowded around him. Dimly, the fox realized that the white blurs were thin sheets, and someone whose face he couldn't see make out had said something garbled and tried to put them back over him.

_Farflit Anorak, combat soldier; Mavern, squad fifteen._

The entire world was reduced down to indistinct patches of roasting alive, faint glimpses of heavily tattooed arms and the bright orange fish along them, snippets of seeing quill points and grey and brown fur, and occasionally, chatting beasts who bent over him for one reason or another with needles and cloths. Time slipped.

_Farflit Anorak, combat soldier; Mavern, squad fifteen._

And Farflit still couldn't stop the burning.

_Farflit Anorak, combat soldier; Mavern, squad fifteen._

So he held tight to what he was supposed to say when the world was going up pain and he had no idea who the beasts leaning over his pinned down body were.

"_Farflit Anorak,_" the fox babbled out, eyes glazed with fever as he sensed another beast entering the room and grabbing him, a cloth and scissors in paw,_ "combat soldier; Mavern, squad fifteen—_"

The scissors cut something on his throbbing shoulder, a calm voice spoke up, and something wet and slippery forced down Farflit's throat made the hazy world even more distant as it quietly and softly folded in.

The fox silenced, drifted, and time continued.

* * *

Something slowly surfaced in Farflit's conscious. The fox's fingers twitched. They came in contact with rough, scratchy folds of fabric. A fuzzy sliver of light entered Farflit's vision, and he struggled to open his eyes. The fox slowly came to on a hard pallet bed, staring up at a dim lantern hanging from a stone ceiling. Something shifted next to him.

"…are you awake? 'cause it was kinda hard ta tell from last time."

Farflit turned his head to see Gittem perched in a chair far, far too small for him next to the bed, his blocky paws clumsily placed on his lap because the stoat had nowhere to put them. A large bandage was tied across his torso from the laceration Hobb had torn into him.

If the fox hadn't been sluggish and not as well trained, Farflit would have started and slammed his aching head into the wall behind him.

"Oh, so you are awake!" Gittem said, beaming and straightening up to further dwarf the chair he sat in.

Farflit was starting to believe he still had some of the sedative herbs in his system. Namely, the ones that caused hallucinations.

The fox blinked slowly before sweeping his eyes across the room. He caught sight of a thick herbal cabinet at the other end of the wall and several more rough cots— some with unused restraints dangling from beneath their battered pallet mattresses— lining the room. Farflit struggled to prop himself up on his elbows to get a better look, but he was halted by the jagged rush of pain that sawed up and down his shoulders. The fox grit his teeth to hold back a labored gasp.

"…how long have I been in here?" Farflit's eyes widened slightly when he recalled the stale taste of death and blood flooding his mouth and slamming up against a stone wall, and then the sound of screaming and a door slamming over and over again. _Hobb is dead. So is Zebediah. We have the White Madness in the quarry._

"Close ta five days," Gittem said.

Farflit grimaced as he tried to sit up again, faint droplets of water pricking the sides of his eyes from all the stinging in his shoulders and battered aching in his spine. Gittem blinked in surprise, the stoat hovering his paws awkwardly over the cot like he didn't know whether to touch the fox or not.

"You're hurt bad; s'not good ta get up—"

"I need to tell Erskine an' Wringer about the infection," Farflit growled, already trying to maneuver himself around and get his legs off the cot. His muscles were screaming in discordance, there was a taste of dry rot and stagnant saliva in his mouth, and everything above his waist hurt.

It didn't matter; mind before pain, Farflit thought. It was possible to shut out the agony and keep moving if you focused on one point inside yourself and disregarded the outside actively trying to hurt you, an' when you had news that could potentially save your squad and affect others, what you felt was worth nothing. _One foot in front of the other, _Farflit thought, trying to shove away Gittem's paws.

"They know," Gittem said. Farflit looked up sharply before wincing and locking up at the pain the movement brought to his head, face, and strands of muscle that ran along his shoulders. All the same, when he had silently and coldly choked down the burn, Gittem's face showed no signs of anything but honesty.

"Were others besides Hobb infected?" Farflit said, momentarily giving up on movement. There was a ragged soreness and exhaustion in his arms that made them near impossible to move, and speaking made something along the left side of his muzzle crack and sting hideously. Gittem, seeing Farflit's temporary surrender, removed his paws.

"Well…" he said. "I mean, Erskine an' Wringer were sendin' more beasts ta check that part of the mine for some reason afore Harran asked you ta do it for him, an' then they were findin' stuff that made 'em real uneasy, so they made me go get you. An' the thing happened with Hobb, an' I brought you back, an' Lorn fixed you up an' everythin' started gettin' crazy. I'm not sure who else got infected; I dun't know their names."

At the stoat's complacent finish, and the way he was far too comfortable in his chair— the kind of comfort Farflit knew came from being uncomfortable so long that it refused to register— the fox had to give his fellow miner an uneasy look.

"…how long have you been here?"

"An hour 'o somethin'," Gittem said, looking like a damn pup that had been rewarded for loyalty. Farflit was endlessly baffled— and slightly disturbed— by the ability of a huge beast like Gittem with a bass voice to sound as if they were _chirping._ There was something wrong with that. "Laikan, Wringer, Mellia, an' Janno checked in on you afore, an' Mellia an' Janno stayed for a little bit, but every'un else was busy. An' Yang asked if you were still livin'."

_Yang._ Farflit narrowed his eyes, ignoring the twinge of pain in his muzzle it brought. "I'm sure he did," the fox said. Gittem bobbed his head in response, missing the icy tone to Farflit's voice.

_Of course he would ask. He wants to make sure I'm alive for killin' later. Or for his attempt_, Farflit thought, his fists clenching over the blanket as he pictured Yang's furious face. His dagger was gone; he would need to get his swords back out soon. The Damsontongue could try to kill him all he liked, but that didn't guarantee him any _success._

"Why are you here, an' how did Zebediah end up dead?" Farflit demanded, staring down the stoat. If he couldn't be active or aid in the swarm that was no doubt occurring outside the infirmary right now, he would at least get himself answers.

Gittem's face looked blank for a second, and Farflit realized he was probably asking the most inept miner out of his sect for an explanation. Then the stoat recovered.

"I don't know exactly what happened ta Zeb—" Gittem said.

_I didn't think you would._

"—but Wringer an' Erskine went an' figured it out after I got you outta there, so I think I kin tell you some." Gittem paused, stretching one of his shoulders. Farflit felt discomfort just looking at the action. "Zeb an' Hobb were gettin' scared about somethin'— I think it was all the other sickbeasts wanderin' around, an' they didn't want ta run out an' tell any'un— an' I guess Hobb got bit somewhere along the line an' didn't want ta show it. So he got sick, an' he chased Zeb around some afore Zeb leaped on the roof ta hide from 'em, an' then… Hobb got 'im."

When he remembered the tufts of fur clinging around the edges of the broken window, Farflit's mouth became a grim line, despite the jabs of hurt that followed the action. Seeing Zebediah was a squirrel, it would have been easy for him to leap on the outpost roof after Hobb snapped and began to chase him in circles. With all the fear pumping through him, it would have also been easy for Zebediah to remain frozen on the roof while Hobb screamed meaningless snarls at him before returning to broken, keening pleads about _please come down, Zebediah, I need you ta help me, I didn't mean it; please come down._

Hobb would have eventually slunk back inside the outpost to hide from a disease and monsters which had already slithered in and taken root. And Zebediah— still bristling with fear and unease— would have remained on the edge of the roof, not daring to make a run for it while he felt Hobb moving around a mere rock ceiling beneath him.

It was too bad for Zebediah that he hadn't noticed the fluffy tail he was so proud of had been dangling in front of the unblocked window Hobb could reach from the inside.

Farflit broke out of his thoughts when he realized Gittem hadn't answered his first question.

"Gittem, you didn't tell me why you were here," Farflit said.

Gittem shrugged, looking confused at his inquiry. "You were hurt. S'not good ta leave hurt beasts alone."

"I insult yer stupidity on a daily basis," Farflit said, gritting his teeth when he moved his shoulders again. "You have no _reason _to be here."

"'course I do. You're my friend." Gittem tilted his head. "An' lots of beasts I know say stuff like that. It doen't mean much. It's just what they do."

Farflit could practically hear all the jeers, snorts, and insults in his head that would follow Gittem making a comment like that, both from friends and strangers alike. The fox struggled to stay sitting up. What was Gittem not understanding here?

"Gittem," Farflit said, pointedly staring the stoat down, "every'un insults you. Random strangers call you stupid, an' they're not bein' nice to you. They're not yer _friends. _Why do you bother to be kind to all of them an' not retaliate when it's obvious they think yer an idiot?"

"If you give somethin' ta every beast you meet, at least 'un of 'em has ta give somethin' back," Gittem said. "Same goes for kindness, right?" The stoat spread his paws. "I don't have anythin' else."

Farflit stared.

But of course Gittem would believe that, Farflit thought, still staring. Because the way his life was, the stoat had no other choice. Something clicked within the fox's head.

"…you came from a shake-an'-dump riverboat, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Me an' another friend of mine. But he… en't around anymore." Gittem glanced down at the floor. "We got down here mostly thanks ta some otters, but we ended up on a shake-an'-dump in the last part. They kinda hurt him when they were kickin' us around, an' he woke up an' couldn't see any more when they were gone. So I went ta get some help from the nice-lookin' shrews sellin' stuff I saw campin' near the river."

Gittem awkwardly rubbed the back of his head.

"They, uh, din't like me that much," he said. "They ended up yellin' a lot an' takin' my friend an' leavin'. They were goin' ta fix him, though, so that was okay, 'cause I couldn't help him. But they were still yellin' an' throwin' their pretty stuff an' bottles at me. Wringer came an' got me afore they hurt themselves. He showed up an' said, 'Now, you leave Gittem alone, he's with me.' I din't know his name, an' he din't know mine, but I came outta there with a new job an' a new name, an' Wringer got a new worker. So I guess both of us got somethin' out of it."

Gittem finished his story simply. Farflit didn't have an immediate snappy response.

In the hodgepodge of Erskine's mine, and somewhere in one of the rough patches that made up their quilt of cultures held together by crude seams of promise and coppers, Gittem was part of the poorest and most desperate group to step foot in the quarry. Farflit had seen many of them since leaving Mavern. They were beasts who arrived with nothing more than the worn clothes on their backs, layers of callouses and scars on their bare paws and feet, and a pool of dues behind them so engulfing that any of them would throw themselves in a mineshaft for seasons for work without a second thought— because the mines weren't near as deep as their debts.

As it turned out, raft and ferry rides down the river weren't free, no matter what the otters and shrews harped proudly about. They only lent their services and hospitality to nice, decent-souled woodlanders, because who ever heard of letting filthy vermin on their boats? Most of the starving beasts ended up hopping aboard long distance boating routes ran by dubious woodlanders and vermin alike, who promised their passengers that the cost wasn't much: they would be able to pay at the end.

_An' that, _Farflit thought, _is a lie more dead than Shaal._

The boats would arrive at their destination a few weeks later, only for the unwitting passengers to find themselves held at spear point by a whole gang of other beasts besides the crew after their initial payment. Traveling had its expenses. If the beasts weren't as broke as dust when they arrived, after the extortionists had ransacked them down to the last seam of cloth on their back and the last crust of bread in their rations bag, they soon would be.

If they thought you couldn't pay the suddenly high price for using their boat even after they had taken everything from you but your pelt, you and your family were in trouble. You were indebted to them, Farflit thought— and they had no problem snapping a few bones or dunking a few beasts in the water to get the location of your future settlement for visits. A debt was pointless if the creditor never came to collect.

This was when Wringer and Erskine liked to step in.

There were more than a few shake-an'-dump stations on the nearby river, and the weasel and wharf rat took advantage of it. They would get there right around the time when the ransacking was starting to get grim, and volunteer to pay the passengers' dues. Once that was done, they would make an offering to them— would they care to come and work at a quarry for three or four seasons?

One season would be the amount that would earn them enough coppers to pay off the cost the two mine overseers had paid for them, an' four would set them up with a nice solid job. And if you settled down in one of the mining towns around, well, that just heightened the chance of your mate and cubs getting work as a bonus. On top of that, protection was guaranteed; nobeast from the river workings was going to mess with a quarry full of miners armed with pickaxes— especially miners armed with pickaxes who had been in the same position as the stripped-down travelers before and had no fond memories of the process.

Most of the beasts who had been freed agreed to it on the spot, Farflit thought, laying a paw on his shoulder to feel out the sewn-up wounds beneath the bandages. And many more ended up binding themselves to the mine for seasons with a contract made of clumsy ink pawprints, seein' hardly any of them could read. It was bond none of them could break because they had nowhere else to go… and they knew it.

The only reason Gittem and his anonymous friend had made it so far downriver without stepping into the snare of a major shake-an'-dump was due to one simple fact most poor vermin in Mossflower were aware of: the stupider you seemed and the heavier your accent, the more likely a woodlander was going to help you.

The latter didn't correspond with intelligence at all, Farflit thought. But it wasn't as if the woodlanders knew that. They didn't like helping vermin they felt were as smart and confident as them, especially if they had a 'stupid' accent. It had a tendency to make them feel threatened.

How much pride had been swallowed on riverbanks as an out-of-luck vermin prepared to humiliate themselves all for the purpose of being able to get help from a riverboat that wouldn't ransack them— even if it would sneer and scorn them while they were not able to retaliate— Farflit didn't know. Gittem certainly did. And Farflit did not like the implications that came with that, especially when he thought of all the riverside woodlander homes and towns Mavern had protected from hordes.

"Are you two done talking yet?"

Farflit and Gittem looked up. The white and brown-freckled face of a mousemaid greeted them, a dark green scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face to firmly hide her mouth and dip down over her neck. She would have looked albino if it weren't for the spots of brown scattered across her back and arms, and the fact that her eyes were a decidedly dark hazel.

Gittem blinked before giving her a small wave.

"'ello, Lorn!"

"Hello, Gittem," Lorn said. She adjusted her grip on a basket she held in her right arm, one that was filled with bandages, scissors, and various other tools. "I didn't see you there."

Farflit bristled slightly at her comment when Gittem only gave her a benign smile in return. The stoat got to his feet when Lorn approached, setting the basket at the base of Farflit's cot.

"Do you want me ta—?"

"Out, Gittem," Lorn said, picking up one of her scissors. "Anorak needs a check-up and a list of things not to do when he stubbornly walks out of here today. …please," Lorn added, tacking on the courtesy after she glimpsed something on Farflit's face.

"'kay," Gittem said. He stood up, setting aside the chair he had been sitting on as if it were a bundle of toothpicks. Farflit was surprised to see the stoat actually pause for a second while he was moving, wincing at his bandaged wound. Had Hobb torn into him that badly? Farflit thought. It hadn't looked that deep in the dark when Gittem was punching the wildcat in the face.

…_punching the wildcat in the face and ending a fight I was struggling through within five minutes,_ Farflit thought. _Almost effortlessly. With little to no training._ Something burned in him that had nothing to do with his wounds.

The fox decided to change the subject.

Now that Farflit looked closer when Gittem edged away, he also saw a few raw patches on the stoat's knuckles, and one or two of them had been sewn up.

"Bye, Farflit," Gittem said. He gave another one of his small waves, not wanting any of Lorn's chastising.

Ignoring the look on the mouse's face, Farflit returned the wave, swallowing down his wince at the jarring soreness it caused.

The stoat left the infirmary, distinctly perked up. Farflit lowered his arm and turned back to look at Lorn, meeting her eyes. She ignored the flatly defiant look on his face and the potential to make a comment.

"Alright, Anorak," she said, lying slender— if sharp— fingers on his left arm. "Time to go over what's broken in you and what you can and can't do for the next month or so. You have only one body and one complete set of muscles, and since you like the ones that have been sliced apart and put back together with thread, time to listen, no?"

Farflit felt part of his face sting again when he looked back at Lorn and her concealed mouth, and her oddly focused dark eyes.

"I'm listenin'," he said.

* * *

Around an hour later, when the last of the sedative Lorn had given Farflit had faded, and he was confident that he could walk on his own two feet without his aching shoulders bringing him down to his knees, the fox returned to his own sparse quarters.

The fox grimaced as he knelt to retrieve something from beneath his bunk, giving a hiss of pain. He paused, letting his forehead rest against the side of the bed and letting his gaze drift to the floor while he composed himself. When he didn't feel another wave of pain coming on, he slowly lowered himself to the floor to reach out beneath his bed.

Times like this, Farflit decided through grit teeth, were ones where he almost regretted not just claiming one of the various hammocks that hung from the ceiling like cocoons. Almost. But he had preferred a solid bed and ground beneath him, unlike Harran or Laikan, so one of the bunk beds in his assigned quarters it had been.

He swallowed down a low whine as he dragged out a belt with a long cloth-wrapped bundle attached. He hadn't realized how far back he'd shoved them beneath his bed, and how much _stretching _was required to get them—

Farflit pulled the bundle out as fast as possible when he no longer had to stretch.

He hadn't seen Laikan, Wringer, Mellia, or anyone else he knew on the way back from the infirmary. Everyone had been far too busy to just hang around the main clearing for the eastern sandstone sect. At most, Farflit had received looks of surprise, a few 'you're not dead's that sounded vaguely disappointed, and a few that definitely did. Half of the looks passed his way were identical to those of hordebeasts when he decapitated their friends in a sword sweep.

_I barely like half of them better than the hordebeasts._

Farflit was more concerned with what his face happened to look like if it was hurting this much _after_ the infection had passed. _Lorn also helpfully informed me that I had a piece of Hobb's claw stuck in my shoulder, _Farflit thought, unwrapping his bundle. He resisted the urge to spit out the side of his mouth. _I would have regretted him dying more if he had broken all his claws off before getting my shoulders._

Gittem had been right when he had said things were getting crazy. As of five days ago— merely hours after Farflit had been assaulted by Hobb— the quarry had been put on lockdown. The White Madness had already taken root in the western section, spreading in the spider web of tunnels like the wretched plague it was. It had taken one bite from an infected beast outside the quarry, a delusion against what they were carrying on the part of one miner, and that was it.

Erskine had gotten a job for them cutting sandstone brick for another abbey determined to copy Redwall; once the sick crisis was over, everyone alive would be able to return back to work. But anybeast who could run and didn't care about not being paid their wages for the current month was fleeing… though they had to be careful where.

The quarry was the single dry spot in a dark, cloud-cloaked sky. Rain and ominous thunder none of the miners could hear raged on up north beneath black skies, while the view right above them was nothing but a flat blue. Scores of infected beasts from the epidemic up north had fled to the south, seeking refuge in the tunnels and caves, and Farflit would be damned if some of them hadn't managed to make it. The infection definitely hadn't sprang from the western quarry, but it was writhing within its entrails now.

_At this point, we're just tryin' to close up and purge the tunnels, _Farflit thought, clearing away the cloth wrap. Epidemics could not be stopped, but the small one in the quarry could be contained, and it was their duty to keep the mess from biting the innocent nearby towns that it had not. There were hundreds and hundreds of miners to aid in the containment as well.

While many could flee, others could not. They were the poor, the indentured servants, the outcasts, the redemption-seekers who knew nothing could redeem them, the deformed, the openly blasphemous, the lonely wanderers tired of wandering, the soldiers, the resting criminals, the warriors, and the loyal who-knew-what-the-Hellgates. The quarry was their only source of income— and their only home. If they could keep hold of it by standing their ground and killing a few other beasts and shutting up some tunnels, then they would do it a hundred times over.

_Beasts who run all their lives, _Farflit thought, sitting on the floor with his back against his bed as he looked over his unwrapped twin swords, _are the strongest when they have something to keep them from running._

Farflit pressed his thumb up beneath one sword hilt and unsheathed a paw's width of gleaming metal. His bruised back and torn muscles throbbed at the mere thought of dual wielding and the familiar weight of the two swords in his paws again.

The fox studied his blurred reflection in the blade. He was able to see his eye and a whole stretch of red, ragged scars along the side of his mouth staring back. His paw tightened around the hilt.

It had been a while.

* * *

A.N: I'm sorry for lack of action in this chapter, though perhaps it makes up for it by explaining some of the miner's origins/the speciest flack in Mossflower and having Gittem in it? (Come on, I know no one can hate the big friendly guy.) Stuff is going to get berserk soon, though, I promise. Filler-esque chapters are going to be at a minimum. But now, on to question time!…and Vulpez, this was a _long_ one, too (1,200 words.)

**1. OK, well this question goes out to Farflit. How did vermin get inducted into the army? Can just anybeast join Mavern's cause? Is there a test to go through t'make sure they won't slaughter innocent beasts? I dunno... The flashbacks made it pretty clear you hated Juska and hordebeasts, so what did ya do to make sure you only got moral vermin? And if they wanted to join your army, what was the main motivation? A lot o' questions, I know.**

Farflit: "Yer misunderstandin' somethin'. Mavern en't a woodlander-based army, like yers is. It started out as two fox tribes an' the remnants of 'vermin' volunteers in a woodlander army bein' tired of treated like dirt— an' I can tell you that every self-righteous woodlander out there will deny ever havin' those volunteers fightin' among their ranks in their history, because it hurts their precious biases too much— an' so they began their own militant group to cooperate with the woodlanders, but not work _beneath _them. They were tired of lickin' somebeast else's feet. Mavern hasn't had a single woodlander member since it began. Ally? Yes. But nothin' more. It started out military, an' that just kept growin' in that direction.

It's also around eighty percent foxes, which is bit off-puttin' to a lot of other… _vermin _who would like to join, so it's stayed mostly foxes. The Damsontongues allyin' with us cemented that. Most of our volunteers an' prospective joiners are foxes as well, though there are a few stray soldiers of different species.

If you want to join Mavern, yer in for a hard trail. Not every'un is allowed 'o accepted, an' those who seem like decent candidates get put under every kind of interrogation an' test possible, as well as learnin' military trainin' an' torture resistance. If some'un wanted an easy way out— like most immoral scum do— Mavern would be Hellgates on earth for them, as it should be.

An' if a recruit like that actually got in an' showed signs of slippin'… well, that's what they're paired with another soldier for. The partner-system en't just about their safety. Yer under watch until you've proved yerself— an' even then, yer part of a squad. There is no room for slippin' up. Mavern makes somethin' to recruits from horde pasts 'o criminal 'uns clear: you don't get a second chance, because yer _on _it. An' third chances don't exist.

If some'un joins Mavern, it's because they want to make a difference, an' they don't want to be considered subpar by anybeast servin' with them. We clear out hordes, protect innocent towns of vermin an' woodlander, an' take care of slave chains in the area, among other thin's. Mavern doesn't have the same kind of mercy the woodlander forces do. An' yes, that makes the punishments an' work load hard. But you get to protect those who deserve it an' kill the dredges of the land who don't. An' when you get to see that those you watch are safe— an' realize that no 'un out there can accuse you of bein' a lesser beast, whether by species 'o anythin' else— it feels damn good."

**2. Also, what kind of name is Farflit? How did your mother come up with that sort of name?**

Farflit: "I don't know. I've never met my mother."

**3. Do you wish that anything in your life had turned out differently? If so, what would it be, and how would you want it to have turned out?**

Farflit: "…The Slave-Line Incident. I wouldn't change any of the choices I made durin' it. They were necessary. An' no amount of cryin' an' screamin' on the woodlanders' parts can change that. But if I could have chosen not to let the whole thing happen, I would."

**4. Going by your response to one of your questions, I can see that you have a fear of commitment. As someone who couldn't live their life sane without commitment to someone whose commitment and loyalty to their clan is etched into their body permanently, what scares you about having that same level of commitment and loyalty to another person?**

Dipper: "Bein' committed ta wench is different from bein' committed ta a friend 'o family, 'o a tribe. I just don't want ta stay with any of 'em, an' 'ey feel the same; it'd probably end with 'un of us slittin' the other's throat at night 'o sneakin' off ta another's tent after so many seasons of forcin' it… But if I'm asked ta put my life an' trust on the line for my tribe 'o some'un close? You goddamn watch me. Why do you think I'm hundreds of miles away from the tribe ta look for— _bring back_ the Taggerung?"

**5. Regarding the Juska— are they all supposed to kill something by that age, and what happens if they don't? Are the victims killed in proper battles, or are they brought in for the purpose? How many Juska get their tattoos completed on the same day, and how do they find enough victims for all of them?**

Dipper: "We usually do thin's in age groups. You have until sixteen 'o seventeen seasons ta get all your tattoos— yes, it's possible ta muck up gettin' 'un of your sections an' set yourself a season back— an' for some late bloomers, eighteen seasons, though the latter is somethin' I sure as 'ellgates don't advise. When they have a decent amount of unraths gathered, at that point, the chieftain an' their mate divide 'em up inta groups.

They wait for a battle with another tribe 'o a rovin' group of otters, shrews, 'o woodlander fighters an' general, an' then they send the unraths out along with the older warriors. Any'un who gets their kill gets inked an' the blood rite ceremony. The rest of 'em just have to wait for the next opportunity that season. The tribe grounds are large, we move around, an' there's always another rival 'o woodlander group who wants ta take a bite out of us, so it's damn easy ta find some'un to fight with. You kin also partner up with some'un an' kill an opponent together, an' both of you kin use their blood; beasts might mock you for it later, but it's not their tripelickin' business how you got your rite done.

An' speakin' of fightin', it has ta be a fight with an actual warrior 'o capable beast. A snivelin' maid 'o bound-up prisoner doesn't count; any bilgegrindin' hordebeast an' pathetic worm could kill 'un of those. Doesn't mean 'ey're good at fightin'. On a regular day, at least around ten unraths get their names an' markin's.

As for your question about killin' somethin' around this general age… yes. If you don't, you're shamed, an' even after you get your markin's, expect ta be kicked around like a bottom-rung slagger. An' as for those who flat out refuse ta participate an' kill somethin'?

Well, there's always another unrath 'o two lurkin' around who still needs their markin's."

_Dipper and Farflit are still taking questions. I recommend you harass them with ridiculous things._


	18. Chapter 15 (Interlude)

"I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm running to them. There's nothing negative about running away to save my life."

―Joseph Heller, _Catch-22_

_._

"It is quite in the order of things in folk tales . . . that a parent should purchase his own safety by sacrificing his son to a ferocious animal or to a supernatural enemy."

—C.F. Coxwell, _Siberian and Other Folk Tales_

* * *

_During Farflit Anorak's internment within the quarry infirmary and hours before Dipper Juskarath's discovery of the Taggerung_

* * *

The land of the semi-northern forest was one caught between the insistent, tugging jaws of the icy winds and cliffs of the tundra, and the fingers of the mellower and leafier midland forest, which twined themselves into its roots. Dark green conifers and leaning oaks created scattered trails of shade over hard, needle-coated grounds, and the smell of cold water and pine sap laced the air. Craggy hills of lichen-hugged stone rumbled from beneath the grey pines and brown deciduous trunks to form a stretching land of empty loneliness loved by only those married to the edge of the north and solitude.

Yet in a clearing formed by rotted and fallen trees and lined with stiff green ferns around the edges, there were company and voices to break the ice sheet of silence.

A ragged mousemaid hugged a stolen guard's coat closer to her, staring defiantly at the fox across the clearing. The fire they had made hours earlier was nothing but a round circle of useless scrap and ash— much like the mousemaid's missing left eye and crater of scar tissue— but unlike her missing eye, the fire ashes were separating the fox and the mouse. He had been trying to sneak off once the flames had died and the faint rays of sun were licking the horizon; she had woken up and noticed it. Their confrontation was imminent.

"So? What now?" the mousemaid said. The scrappy sleeves of the guard coat flopped over her arms she crossed them. She was still holding her dagger. "You planning to run off and leave?"

The fox said nothing. He quietly eyed her dagger, leaving his own sheathed. His expression was controlled and flat for the moment, but each time it changed, the burnt and warped prisoner brand beneath his right eye moved with it. Ross had noticed the charred emblem of skin far more often in the past hour than she cared to admit.

"…I owe you nothing, mouse," he said. Ross narrowed her eyes. "I don't see why we shouldn't be partin' ways."

"You mean you owe me nothing but your life and freedom," the mousemaid said. Ross refused to back down at the glare the fox gave her. She had survived Greyspire; she could survive this. The mouse pointed at his prisoner brand. "I rescued you out of that ice prison; wasn't that worth something? You'd be freezing down there still if not for me, vermin."

"Watch who you call _vermin,_" the fox growled, pulling himself up straighter. Ross tensed slightly, despite the alliance she and the grey fox had formed over the past three days. He could move fast and she knew it. Old, deep scars crinkled over his shoulders when he held them broad with pride.

"…I am," Ross said, her fingers curling around her dagger tighter when she saw the look emerging on his face. "You're the one who was talking about honor and respect for prisoners and fellow fighters when I was breaking you out of that cell; where's that 'honor' now when you're trying to run off with half the rations?"

It had been just Ross's luck to escape from one ice Hellgates to plunge straight into another, and just her luck to not be as fortunate as to find another vermin ally as kind as the first one that had freed her. A brief pang of pain and concern hit her chest when she remembered the brown and white-fluff splotched ermine who had unlocked her cell door in the first prison— and conveniently took off his coat to leave it right in her reach while he turned away, pretending to see nothing. Was he dead now? Had he been hanged and beaten by his fellow guards? She didn't know. Either way, he was hundreds of leagues away by now.

And at any rate, she had a fox to deal with.

Ross broke out of her brief remembrance when her rescued companion shifted the half bag of stolen rations behind his back at her words. He hadn't possessed a bag to start with, she thought; it had probably been made out of the torn tunic and uniform remnants he still had on. He glared challengingly at her.

"Half is a fair split," he said. "Would you rather I have taken all the rations? An' you are the one tryin' to hold a rescue over my head like a debt, as if I asked to _buy _common decency from you. I'm not the one actin' like a vermin."

Ross had a small inward cringe at his words, something she hadn't expected, but she pushed past the surprise and sting to keep staring the fox down. Never give vermin your back. It would come at a price. And that was something she and her friends had learned all well all too late.

"Well," she said slowly, scraps of an idea clicking in her head from past scattered conversations, "at least I'm not betraying my code, which you're trying to do. Aid for aid, payment for payment? I saved your life and freed you. You haven't done the same for me. Wouldn't that bind you to me until you managed to pay me back?"

At the subtle flinch on the fox's face, Ross knew she had him. _A sense of honor can be as entrapping as wiles,_ her mother had said. And she had been right, Ross thought. The mouse felt a bit odd at seeing the struggling look on the fox's face before he slumped in flat, spiteful defeat. She had just never expected that to apply to a vermin.

"…what do you want?" he said warily, eyeing her. Ross tried to ignore her indignation at being looked at in the same manner as a rock slide blocking a trail, or a guard blocking a door.

"I need your help," she said, relaxing her paw— though she kept her dagger in the other. He was trapped by an honor code and hadn't stabbed her the first time they had shaken paws; it was unlikely he would do it now. Unlikely. Not impossible. "There's a vermin fortress… abbey… thing up north from here, farther up than that fat wolf's hideout we just threw open. It's called Greyspire. The leader there took me and my friends prisoner, and I only got out. I need to go get them back. Or at least, the pieces of them," she added hollowly, recalling the disconnected scream given when her eye was ripped from her face. Haley, Farrow, Blossom, and Tobe had been taken into the deeper entrails of the prison from her. If she had suffered that much merely from being on one of the higher floors, then they—

"You want revenge 'o a rescue," the fox said. He didn't sound surprised in the least. Another flat, dead and tired look was on his battered face that made Ross swear he had doubled in age. It was difficult to tell his seasons beneath his scars and cloak of mechanical weariness.

"I want that, and I want to bring Greyspire to its knees," Ross said. She stroked the sleeve of her coat, momentarily lowering her eyes at the feel of the cloth and imagining she was holding Tobe's paw again as she had at Greyspire's dining room table, both of them trying to laugh off their bit of discomfort at the species of their hosts. "I'm not going to let them take in and torture somebeast else. Never again," she said softly.

The fox watched her face, holding his tongue as he saw the split seconds of softness in her eyes that meant thoughts of family, and for a moment, he was younger and regretful. Then Ross looked up again, and the fox's empathy fled.

"An' I vowed to never go north 'o set foot in an enemy fortress again, an' to return south to my family, but look how well _that's _goin'," the fox said. He bitterly clenched his teeth and glared at her. It was the same face that would have been followed by a spiteful spit out the corner of a mouth.

Ross rolled her brief spark of guilt over— something that was becoming disturbingly common around this fox, as well as the terrifying stray feeling of _sympathy_— by thinking of her own family and friends, locked away in the fortress. She put a paw on her hip and drew herself up as proudly as the vermin had done so earlier.

"You came up north to fight on your own; don't act like it's not your own fault you ended up in some pampered, sadistic war left-over's trap. My friends and I came only for traveling and seeing the world. Nothing more."

"Really? Well, I came up north for a cause I was _fightin' _for," the fox growled, showing the very edges of his teeth. "For something I believed in. An' I was part of that war that you keep talking about as a leftover."

"…the war ended eighteen seasons ago."

"You think I haven't _noticed?_"

"Look, you can return to the family you left behind," Ross said, impatiently breaking in before other feelings could get the best of her. "You can go back to that dilapidated fortress and stab that smug wolf in the stomach or throw yourself off a mountain; I don't care. Once you've helped me take out Greyspire— or that damn Lord Kevern ruling it, at the very least— you can do whatever you like. But not before then. You owe me your gratitude and you're indebted to me, remember? You said as much when I was helping you out of the cell."

Ross stressed the word _owe_, and the mousemaid's heart beat a little faster at how far she was emphasizing the fox's debt to her, especially since the nasty, trapped expression on his face was growing. This was beyond the point she should be pushing. But she didn't care. She had her friends on the line; getting a crucial ally to help keep her alive and gather forces until she could go back to save her friends or avenge them was all that mattered.

Fear was the best source of bravery.

"…you said Greyspire was a _fortress_," the fox said. "If it is, an' you want to bring it to the ground— it's goin' to take more than us to do that. Beasts here up north don't like anyone tryin' to take their shelter an' homes; we'd have to go all the way south for recruits an' then back up to attack."

"That's just what I intend to do," Ross said, ignoring the disbelief and warning in the fox's voice. "I have a few old allies, down south."

He stared at her. A myriad of emotions crossed his face: first disbelief, then horror, then something almost fear, and then— anger.

"You're goin' to drag us both down south an' then back _up?_ To get both so close down there, an' then back damn _up_, without— without lettin' me—" The fox spluttered on his rage, fingers flexing as he tried to get a grip on words to hurl at her. Ross swallowed her fear and continued to hold her ground.

He was bound and made harmless by a spider web of honor and codes, she thought. He was as disarmed and harmless towards her as a trapped wasp, as long as she kept reminding him of his binds.

Ross tried not to consider the fact that if those flexing fingers of his got around her throat, there would be no one around to hear her scream. She had seen him fight weaponless. That was not the carried poise of somebeast who hadn't been trained to kill efficiently.

"I said you go free after you fulfill your debt," she added helpfully. "Some of the woodlanders might help you get further home after this is over."

The fox gave her a poisonous glare, the prisoner's brand near his eye warping.

"…don't try an' make it easier for me to hate you," he growled. Ross's innards flipped at the icy malice in his face. She still kept her poise.

"You've already starting referring to us as _us_," she pointed out. "You may hate me… but you're going to help me. Isn't that right?"

The fox hissed a few things under his breath about his damn code and not knowing to when to stop things. The hateful, regretful, and hollow mutters about him previously throwing seasons of his life away due to it were implied, not spoken. Ross was getting nervous as the fox's fur stood on end and he slung the rations bag to the ground, the force of his action snapping one of the hard biscuits inside like a dibbun's spine.

She took a step back as he moved around the fire ash pit towards her, muffling a snarl, but he didn't even glance at her dagger. The fox extended his paw with something bordering on desperate loathing.

"Congratulations, mouse. You've got your help," he said, dragging the final word out of his mouth. Ross moved to shake his paw for the second time in three days… and abruptly found her fingers squeezed and trapped in a hard grip before she could let go.

"—but only until I've repaid my debt," the fox said, staring down at her. "You may have saved my life an' freed me, but you did nothin' else. The instant I save your life _once_ an' help you out of a hostage situation? I'm done."

"Wait a minute—" Ross snapped, already feeling her plan's seams being jerked apart as she considered the thousands of miles of travel the fox would have the opportunity to fulfill his debt and run— and long before she had completed her goal— but it was too late.

He gave her a firm shake and immediately let go of her paw, stepping back. Ross gave him a dirty look with the one good eye she had. Some of the jagged peaks of her lost eye's scar seemed to frown in anger.

"Are you goin' to tell me I need to owe you more?" the fox said, seeing her expression. He swished his grey tail. "Try to jack up the deal an' guilt me into helpin' you?"

"No," Ross said coldly. "I wouldn't. What do you take me for?"

She could see the fox visibly biting back some comment on his tongue. The mouse could only summon up some anger to bubble around the edges of the begrudging truth: he was right about his end of the deal. The fox would repay her as much as he owed her. Nothing more. That was fair, Ross had to admit.

What wasn't fair was the fact that she had been stripped of all her friends and sense of direction and was forced to desperation to the point of having to con a vermin she'd rescued into helping her.

The fox stalked back over to his makeshift rations bag made from the ripped blue remains of some grimy jacket, a slight limp to his step. He bent to retrieve it, and Ross realized something that hadn't clicked for three days of escaping and running.

"I don't know your name."

The fox grunted in reply, making sure he had spilt none of the sparse rations when he had thrown his bag down.

"Care to introduce yourself?" Ross said dryly, sensing no answer forthcoming when the fox got to his feet again. He dusted off the side of the bag with a motion that may have once held fondness, but all emotion had been eaten by necessity.

"Not particularly."

"Why not?" the mousemaid said, putting away her dagger away and crossing her arms. The fox eyed her for a moment at the former action, but he went back to hiding their fire ashes and inspecting his bag a moment later. "I know you know mine— whether you acknowledge it or not— and I'm going to flat out tell you that it's Ross, in case you happened to miss it through all the yelling and screaming the guards did." She crossed her arms a little tighter, trying to find eye contact with a beast who suddenly didn't seem to give a damn about it. "You going to return the favor and tell me your name?"

"I'm already returnin' enough favors for you," the fox said darkly, burying their ashes. He did it in neat, efficient, rule-ironed motions. In ten seconds, it was as if no mouse or fox had even been lighting a fire there. Ross tried to keep from focusing on him and blinking in surprise.

"Come _on. _You know what I meant, fox," she said, snapping back to attention. "We're going to be stuck together 'til something's over. And it's a _name._ It's not as if I'm asking for your friendship; it's obvious you're not from anywhere here up north," she said, looking at his grey fur.

The fox hesitated at her words. He stopped in his preparations to leave.

"…I would rather not," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "Names have power."

Ross arched her eyebrows. There were hundreds of things to say in response to that comment, but she was just trying to just find one.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, settling for that. The fox shrugged his scar-carved shoulders. He glanced at her, a bit of sour satisfaction in his face at frustrating her.

"It means, _Ross_, that you should be findin' a good nickname that has nothing to do with 'vermin' if you want somebeast to talk to for the next hundred miles 'o so." The fox cracked his neck, nudging at a stone near his foot. "Also, we're around the tail of the near northern forests, meanin' that we have to move fast an' move hard durin' the daylight, because night is goin' to be a freezin' hell. We're movin' out now." He looked up from the stone, brown eyes narrowing at her. "Problem?"

If Ross hadn't been worn out from everything that had been falling on her head for the past season, and disturbed by the thin but ever-prevalent silence and motionlessness that filled the empty forest, she would have argued. But at that point, she was at her end mark. She knew the fox was testing her— but she would let him have his pushy moment. After all, she wasn't the one bound to a stranger by honor's debt.

"You have no idea, fox," she settled for muttering, pulling her own rations bag on her shoulders and beginning to follow her companion out in the chilly winding trees. The first step of thousands was taken.

The fox gave a quiet snort and subtle eye roll.

* * *

Further south— in the sandy, travel-worn paths of the green Juskan forest turf, and the dried out riverbeds and thin creeks that curved around concealing brush piles— other things were astir, particularly in the seer lodge of the Eastern Juskarath. In their own manner.

Everything was quiet within the seer vixen's hut. Some of the lingering scent of incense still trailed into the air, strings of smoke floating from the charred sticks in the fire pit, but not a thing stirred otherwise. Atiya Fatewinder sat in front of her extinguished fire, feeling the last trails of heat stroke her back and layers of shawls and clinking bone ornaments before disappearing. The vixen closed her clouded eyes.

The permanent darkness in her sight remained unchanging.

Closing her eyes was now more of a habit now than anything else, but Atiya was unsurprised that she still kept it. After walking a certain trail so long, beasts hesitated to take a singular step off their track, and they continued to traverse up and down their accustomed paths until they wore ruts into the ground and paved their road with their bones. She was an aged vixen made more of fang and bird-bone ornaments than flesh. Who was she to try and alter old ways?

Atiya's limbs creaked as she settled herself down in a cross-legged position, her thin robes gently spilling around her on the floor. Bangles carved from the vertebrae of fish rattled gently from the fringes of the shawls they were tied on. Atiya could feel every one of her worn muscles give an ancient strain as she moved, the old tide of aches coming in again. Spirits, Rangar hadn't been that far off when he'd called her older than Mossflower itself.

The vixen gave a few muttered curses, trying to momentarily stretch her limbs. The pain in her body wasn't even a bite anymore— it was an old companion she could never get rid of, someone who kept returning to drink with her and keep her company, whether she wanted them there or not.

Atiya gave a quiet snort at her thoughts. Vulpez knew she had more than one companion of that stock.

She had slipped into meditating when she heard a whispered rustle of curtains and felt a faint waft of her air across her face. Some of the feathered chimes hanging in the lodge turned gently. Atiya kept her eyes screwed shut, her brittle fingers curling around her knees. She refused to let her battered ears turn to listen to the near-soundless footsteps approaching her from the hut entrance.

"Hello, Grandma!"

A cheerful voice spoke less than three feet in front of her. Atiya had been through the situation far too many times to wince or sigh any further. She opened her eyes, still seeing nothing, and she swore she could feel the other beast in front of her grinning as he watched her sightless eyes open. She had heard his… _parents _describe it before.

"_That thing has the smile of Vulpez. If Zenrisk wants it, he can have it."_

"_That 'thing' an' 'it' is your son."_

"Don't call me that," Atiya said. _Grandma._ Feh.

"Looks I caught you in the middle of meditatin'," Taike said, merrily plowing on and ignoring her words. "After all of the thickheaded warriors squirmin' around an' arguin' in here before, I'm not surprised you need it."

Atiya was unsure of what he was doing, but she heard the rustling of his decorated seer's kilt and a soft clatter of a bone belt. Taike had settled down in front of her, copying her crisscross position with the mannerisms of a cub.

"Meditatin' is ta be done alone, Taike," Atiya said, her voice flat. She closed her eyes again and tried to shut out his presence. The toothy grin reappeared on his face, growing wider.

"You _are_ meditatin' alone, Grandma. I don't count—"

Taike abruptly went silent, and Atiya could sense his body stiffening. He didn't perk up after another few moments, and the seer grimaced and opened her eyes, leaning forward in concern when she heard a low intake of breath. An intangible ripple spread throughout the entire token-cluttered lodge.

"_The young an' younger will unite once more_

_When the lyin' adder's tooth is broke_," Taike said, his voice losing its cheerful quality, the seer stiffening and his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling,

"_Young touched younger the first time ta help_

_The second time, ta choke._"

A cold briar of foreboding twisted in Atiya's ribs when Taike's words faded, and the young fox went limp with a shudder, blinking the trance from his eyes. If that wasn't a prophecy of misfortune, then nothing was. And for it to come so soon after the chosen Juska headed after the Taggerung—

"Taike, do you see more?" Atiya asked sharply, reaching for the fox's shoulders. His look of relative peace was instantly broken by another forced smile again and two peppy ears. His smile was far too stretched, and Atiya feel a forced casualness in his limp muscles. "Do you need divinin' runes?"

"No," Taike said. Atiya could hear the singsong quality polluting his voice again. "Not at all, Grandma. My sight is as empty as a deadbeast's face."

Atiya frowned, narrowing her eyes in disgust. Seers were but subjective deliverers of fate, not its bringers, but it still gave Taike no right to play with his fortunes. She could hear the lie in his words, slipping past his rows of sharp teeth as easily as he could breathe. Ruining the prophecies that could save the fragments of their tribe.

"Then look harder," Atiya snapped, drawing her shawl around her neck just to give her paws something to do instead of clenching at air and then freezing into curled claws from pain. "You're the tribe Seer, now. It's up ta you ta see things, not me. What was the prophecy about? Any 'un of the travelers? Rangar, Dipper, Anscom, 'o Slipgale? The Taggerung?"

"Well," Taike said, prattling on like they were stinking woodlanders discussing something over tea, the fox joyfully ticking off his raised fingers, "Slipgale is the oldest, an' Rangar is the youngest, but en't Anscom younger than Rangar in some ways? He's more temperamental, after all, an' sometimes Dipper acts wiser than Slipgale—"

"The prophecy had nothin' ta do with any of our tribe, did it?" Atiya said.

There was a pause. She heard Taike halting.

"No. Well, part of it, but not really."

Atiya wearily settled in her seat. The familiar tiredness she felt around Taike seeped out of her bones, and she could summon no disappointment for his answer.

"I din't think so," she said. She heard the dulled tone of something that could've been bitterness years back flatly lining her words. A few more fang tips showed in Taike's smile when he heard it.

As always, Taike found fate strings that did not even intertwine with theirs. First, it had been the prophecy about a fortress of ice and the ending destruction and damnation of the 'fire' family living within, Atiya thought, and now this. And yet it was just all the stretched strands of a spider web's edge that Taike plucked at, but found nothing as to where it lead. He was blinded by vision.

"I've seen plenty of fates lately, but none of 'em have been those of our tribe," Taike said. He held his paws out palms up. "There's plenty of destiny meetin', an' lots of bonds an' strings bein' snapped, loves bein' found an' redeemed, but none belong ta us. It'd be convenient ta see some of my future."

"You wretched little abomination," Atiya said softly, "you _have_ no future."

She felt Taike grin at her words, a hideous smile splitting his face that gave Atiya the same sensation as hearing a charlatan fortune-teller mumble a prophecy.

"You an' Zenrisk are gettin' along well, like always," Taike said. Atiya tried not to narrow her eyes.

"Don't patronize me, cub," she spat. The vixen felt sourness not quite as old as the rest of her course through her veins. Zenrisk's favor was no longer hers. It hadn't been for the past seven seasons. He wanted a tool to see the future with, a dagger to cut through the fogs of fate. And she had shattered down to the hilt years ago.

Taike was his new blade now. Whether he liked it or not.

"I never condescend ta you, Grandma," Taike said. Atiya was going to snap something back before she sensed another stiffening again, and the other fox went mute.

One moment passed, and then another, and the lodge still remained dead silent. Not a single rustling of leaves, twitter of a bird, or distant conversation from the rest of the Juska camp permeated the hut's wood-scaled walls. The lack of noise was deafening. Atiya nervously licked her lips, cursing her inability to see. Was Taike in another trance? What was he doing? The old vixen suddenly felt fragile and alone. She reached her arms out, trying to touch her grandson.

"Taike—"

Without warning, there were arms crushing around Atiya's sides, and she wheezed as she was suddenly slammed up against another beast's chest. Her shawls slumped askew and rattled from the sudden movement, and Atiya was too winded to yelp or scream.

"Got you," a voice whispered. Atiya's fur went on end along her spine when she felt the other fox's nose less than an inch away from her face. The vixen's thin ribs trembled and ached when the grip around her tightened.

"Taike, stop," she said, grabbing at his back to try and get a purchase on something, either fur or his clothes— to try and get his arms to loosen— but all she managed to do was tangle up the cloak hanging from his neck, her paws slipping under it. Her fingers feebly clawed over the layers of old lash wounds and ragged scars that covered his back. The grip crushing her ribs hardened.

"You know," Taike whispered, his hot breath curling right into her ear, "it would be nice, ta not have any seersight. Ta be _blind_ an' not have ta see _any _of this; ta not see what happens ta them all."

"Taike, stop, you're hurtin' me! Vulpez, you're hurtin' me!" Atiya wheezed, the old vixen feeling her body and frail bones giving a protesting groan and crack underneath Taike's tightening arms, and she clawed more desperately at his back, fear swelling up in her chest.

The pressure of the arms squeezing around her ribs abruptly stopped increasing. Atiya could feel Taike tense with surprise. She gave another ragged wheeze as a cough tried to build in her throat and died before it could escape.

Atiya felt the hold on her loosen and move away to let her steady herself. The vixen fell into a coughing fit. She shakily held her chest and fumbled at the agonized spots, as if she could reach into them and take out the pain the same way she could pick a pebble from shallow water. Her shawls quivered with her in a gale of trembling beads and knit cloth. Taike's gaze bored into her, and Atiya could practically picture the stretched grin forced across his face, though she had never seen it.

She had never seen Vulpez, but there was no doubt he existed.

A minute later, while she was still hacking and clutching at her chest, Atiya felt a canteen being tenderly shoved into one of her paws. Taike patted her fingers to clamp around it.

"Be careful when you drink, Grandma Atiya," he said cheerfully. "You want ta make the cough go away, not ta choke."

A still-slightly hacking Atiya took the canteen. She lifted it to her mouth, her shoulders shaking, and managed to swallow some of the water. A faint trickle of it caught in her whiskers and rolled down them as she spilt some. The vixen slowly calmed her spasms and her limping heartbeat.

Finally, Atiya ceased her coughing entirely. She closed the canteen and set it aside. The smell of fading incense floated about the room. There was a shuffling of limbs and clothes as Taike changed his position. Atiya pulled her slipping purple headscarf back up where it belonged on her head. She dully noted that her paws didn't shake anymore like they used to after such situations.

Taike began to hum, Atiya catching the notes and singsong words low under his breath.

"_The young and younger will unite once more,_" he breathed,"_when the lying adder's tooth is broke…_"

Atiya slowly closed her eyes.

She didn't pray to the Fates.

She hadn't in a long, long time.

* * *

A.N: The first interlude, and a somewhat familiar face from Greyspire appears, even if she didn't have a name up until now. Also, mystery fox. But here's a hint: I can guarantee that at least two readers know what mystery fox's name is, even if they are not aware of it. He's been stealth-mentioned elsewhere from RT a few times already.

I'm sorry for not having a Juska chapter up this week, but things in real life were getting hectic, and I was getting tired. I had only the flashback typed up for Dipper's chapter, and I knew it would take me three or four days to get the body completed, seeing I'm having a few struggles with it. I didn't want to update any later than necessary, so this interlude— which was going to be posted quite soon anyway— served as the replacement. Do not worry, however; Dipper and co will be up and at 'em soon.

But now, on to question time:

**1. Farflit, how did you get a name that means rain jacket?**

Farflit: "My name means 'rain jacket' as much as yer name means 'worth somethin'.'"

(Fun fact: Farflit's last name, Anorak, is indeed French for rain jacket, or heavy winter coat. Luckily for Farflit, the French language does not seem to exist in the Redwall verse to give him grief… or dent his pride for his answer being incorrect. Thanks to Anla'shok for pointing this out; now we may all snicker.)

**2. What was it like growing up as an army brat?**

Farflit: "There's really no point for askin' that question, seein' I had no other upbringin' to compare mine to until I got old enough to go on patrol an' really see other villages. Everyone in Mavern was an army brat. You get used to wearin' a uniform most of the day an' shiftin' around. Since Aunt Tilda was a captain, we didn't do as much movin' around as some of the other soldiers, though I had to stay at different stronghold 'o two with her when I got older an' wanted to see how captainin' was done. When I became a full-time soldier, it was different. You sleep anywhere there's a cot durin' yer campaign an' listen to whatever yer superior says, an' there's yer home. It's not practical to get attached to 'un place.

…our house in Mavern while she wasn't away was still my favorite."

**3. I want t'know what your human counterparts are for each of you. Got that, ladies?**

Farflit: "I've been told I am the male version of a combination of Vickers from Prometheus— minus the father issues— an' Buccaneer from Fullmetal Alchemist. I understand neither of these pointless references. Nor am I a female, but suppose with yer level of wit, you could find no better insult."

Dipper: "I've got some Jayne Cobb from Firefly in me, apparently…? Still don't know what the 'ell that means. An' try harder, slimewad. Heh."

(Alright, this was a bit of a hard one— these guys don't have human counterparts, really, or not ones I can think of right now. Both of these answers addressed the counterparts personality-wise. I hope this covers some of it.)

**4. I was also really wondering which one of you would win at a drunken singing competition. Namely, if you sang "Call Me Maybe" by Carlie-Rae Jepsen?**

Dipper: "Me. Paws down."

Farflit: "I have actual dignity to preserve, unlike the weasel. Nor do I like gettin' drunk."

Dipper: "Bugger off, you're just a goddamn sore piece of tripe. You couldn't sing worth a scumlick if you tried. An' what's wrong with gettin' drunk?"

Farflit: "Everythin'. An' you seem to be mistaken who's the tripe an' scum here, Juska. …if I recall, the last competition you won while drunk was 'un about strip dan—"

Dipper: "Change of subject; why the 'ellgates en't you dead yet?"

Farflit: "I ask the same about you every second I see you."

**5. You might stab me through the chest for this, but if you both had to spend a day as a girl, what would you do with your time?**

Farflit: "Whatever I usually do. Bein' female wouldn't change my schedule 'o skills."

Dipper: "Pfft, you're dull as muck. Now me— I, uh, not goin' ta lie— would probably go… test out my changes, if you get my meanin'. I heard it's different from females I knew, but—"

Farflit: "None of us want to know the amount of tribal males you would lay down with due to yer repression an' a new body."

Dipper: "Burn in 'ellgates; it's nothin' like that. Those are other warriors an' tribemates of mine you're talkin' about, scumslagger. I'm goin' to grab that tongue of yours an' rip it out if you kin't watch it_._"

Farflit: "You would try. An' you would fail. Much like yer friends are failin' to be worth anythin'."

Dipper: "You're a cocky, chunk-blowin' _jrakat _bastard—"

-Conversation and characters separated-


	19. Chapter 16

"_Like 'ell you would."_

"_I would, Dipper. An' you know it. Stop bein' in denial."_

"_That's a load of tripe," Dipper scoffed, elbowing the ferret in the shoulder. The two of them were taking a break from the stress of Tabliz's recent split that was hanging over the torn tribe, and both warriors were sitting on a log together on the camp's outskirts. "If we got in a fight, I'd win."_

_Sunstreak give him a grin, and Dipper narrowed his eyes at seeing the ferret's cocky expression._

"_Not a possibility, Dipper. I'd slit your throat before you knew what hit you."_

"_Dead lie. Not if I stomped the tripe out of your stomach an' beheaded you first, ferret."_

_Sunstreak gave a laugh. "Sure. Not with your guts hangin' around your feet, weasel."_

_Dipper tried ignoring that there wasn't as much joy or energy in Sunstreak's laughter as usual and pressed on with the banter. He unsheathed his dagger, flicking it into his paws with ease and turning the blade over in his fingers. The weasel looked over the many scars and scuffs from past battles._

"…_but really," he said, observing his blade, "if we got in a fight— who do you damn think would win?"_

"_Hell if I know," Sunstreak said. He paused at seeing Dipper's dagger, and Dipper could sense the ferret twitching towards his own blade for comparison. "Speakin' of fightin'… 'Un thing, Dipper— kin you make a promise?"_

"_Sure, Sunstreak. I'd swear my blood rite markin's on it. What?"_

"_If we ever end up in a fight ta the death with each other— dagger 'o no dagger, teeth ta teeth— no holdin' back. No runnin'. No pretendin' we din't see each other an' goin' on ta some'un else. We go until it's finished an' 'un of us is dead."_

_Dipper stared at his solemn face._

"…_what the bloody __**frag**__, Sunstreak?"_

"_What? Don't tell me you're tryin' to back out."_

"_Goddamnit, I din't know you were goin' ta spring somethin' like that!" Dipper said, recoiling to stare at him. "Where the 'ell did that come from?"_

"_Don't be a coward; you said you'd swear your blood rite markin's on it," Sunstreak growled._

"_I'm not a coward, an' I din't damn well say I wouldn't make the promise," Dipper growled back, staring at him. "I just— why the blazes were you thinkin' of this? I'd like ta know that. That's all."_

_Sunstreak shrugged. The movement was stiffer than necessary. "I was just thinkin'— we've been meetin' a lot of friends an' family on the battlefield recently. It'd be a damn shame not ta make sure we weren't takin' each other seriously if we ever ended up blade-ta-blade, you know? We both know what we kin do, an' it'd just be… disgustin' ta show each other disrespect by pretendin' our fight would end in a tie. Ta hold back what we're capable of ta let 'un of us run when we're both better fighters than that; better __**beasts**__ than that. Hell, neither of us deserves that kind of disgrace, an' you know it. I'd return the favor for you, if you promised ta give it ta me."_

_Dipper eyed him critically, not liking Sunstreak's tone and the way his stomach was sinking nastily the more he looked at the ferret, but he still reached out and shook paws with him._

"_I promise, then," he said. "Flay off my markin's if I don't keep it."_

_Dipper let go of Sunstreak's paw once they were done shaking, still feeling the warm ghost of his grip on his fingers. The weasel laughed once they were done making their deal._

"_Sonuvawhore, though, what are the chances of us ever meetin' on the battlefield?" he said, snorting. "S'not like we're stupid enough ta confuse our muckin' side with Tabliz's, ha!"_

_It took Dipper a moment to realize Sunstreak wasn't laughing with him. _

* * *

There was nothing like a damned combination of White Madness, a found amnesiac Taggerung, and pouring rain to get the Juska moving quickly— and keep them moving. The rain may have been their safety against the madbeasts, but they still had needed distance between them; this was an epidemic, and the rain would not shield them and the Taggerung forever.

The Juska ran away as fast as possible.

They left the plague zone behind and goddamn ran, with Dipper feeling mud squashing beneath his feet and flecking his legs with every step, and his heart threatening to climb into his throat for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion. Anscom, Slipgale, Rangar, and he managed to loop themselves in a circle around Finnicka after they had left the town, though Dipper didn't know if she had realized it. For a Taggerung, she was pretty scumsuckin' distracted, even if she kept up well.

The Juska kept up their running until they had left the rotted town and the road that slithered through it well behind, and they vanished back into the forest's maw of dripping, slippery-leaved trees.

Finally, all of them found shelter beneath an eroded rock outcropping Slipgale had spied from between the trees. The sandstone pillar had been whittled down into a sharp inward ⊃ curve made of red and subdued orange stripes, and the top of it shoved out in a needle-nosed roof, forming a little open room six feet above the ground. A smooth rock platform hugged close to the spine of the formation, and short side walls provided a block from the worst of the blowing rain. The lumpy sandstone formation was easy to climb. It was all the Juska needed to clamber up beneath the rock and out of the rain.

Dipper gave a shake of his head once he was beneath the outcropping, sending a fine spray of water into the air. Everybeast got dirty looks from Anscom as they did the same thing, and the fox swiftly fit himself in the back pocket of the formation's shelter, pulling off the wet cloak and drying himself down with it.

Dry, twisted pieces of wood that had been left in the shelter beneath the outcropping— remnants from a tree that was dead and gone after falling on the pillar, or leftovers from some poor mucker's previous campout— were quickly piled up in the back of the rock pocket and lit by Rangar's flint. The wind howled, it and the rain beating down the trails of smoke trying to escape from their shelter, and all the warriors gathered around the small ball of heat.

And so it was that all the Juska found themselves clustered together around a wavering bunch of flames and one battered, slightly confused Taggerung, with nowhere else to go.

Currently, that Taggerung was being patched up by Slipgale, Dipper thought, and having… _her_ wounds looked over. The weasel glanced over at the rat sitting across the nearby fire with hunched shoulders, letting Slipgale sew up a particularly bad gash none of the Juska had noticed before. The Taggerung had been covered in so much goddamn muck that it had nearly been impossible to tell her fur color, anyway. Rangar sat next to them; the stoat seemed to hover back and forth some drawn line of personal space only he knew of.

_Watch it, Rangar, _Dipper thought,_ we en't the only ones who may able to see you're nervous._

"So after you were sent to the town, the epidemic took hold, an' somethin' happened ta keep you trapped in there," Rangar said, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Finnicka nodded. She briefly gritted her teeth when Slipgale's sewing paw brushed against one of her burns, but the ratmaid gave no other sign of pain. "Yeah. I know I was sent there from my Juska for… an important reason… but it's not comin' back," she said. The rat's eyes drifted to Rangar's tattoos, and they briefly glazed over the umpteenth time Dipper had seen them do so. "It had somethin' ta do with the Madness, an' so did the reason I stayed, but—"

The Taggerung blinked the glazed expression out of her eyes. Rangar tried not to look like he was clinging to her general presence and scrutinizing her, and Dipper and Anscom purposely kept their watching casual, making sure not to stare.

"What'd you do after they trapped you in the lantern buildin'?" Rangar prodded, trying to get her twisted ball of words rolling and perhaps hoping that a core of remembrance would be at their center when they unwound. Finnicka's grey eyes flicked over to him again.

"I waited," Finnicka said, shrugging. "The sickbeasts… don't travel much when they're that diseased, not unless they really want somethin'. They just wander in an' out of places— not enough ta let you run for it, but enough to let you grab nearby supplies an' do a few things. I just broke open the lantern oil barrel in the shop the sickbeasts cornered me in after every'un had gone ta Hellgates, stole a flint, an' then lit them up after they'd soaked themselves. After that, I met all of you, an' I don't remember seein' a single Juska otherwise." The Taggerung's gaze drifted down to the edges of her own unfamiliar clan markings, which wrapped around her sides like stray ink ribs.

"It doesn't matter," Rangar said, waving a paw dismissively. He spread his arms in a gesture that was just as stinkin' welcoming as it was near boastful. Dipper bet the only reason he wasn't closer was due to the fact that he was talking to the Taggerung. "Whatever your tribe was before, you're Juskarath, now. All we have ta do is get you back ta the tribe, an' then we can get your Taggerung markin' completed, an' we'll just combine our Rath tattoos with the old 'uns from your blood rite. It'll all work out."

"My markin's from my _what?_"

The reply was enough to make Dipper snap his head up. _Hellgates, _he thought, _does that tone means what it addersuckin' seems like?_

"Don't tell me you don't remember your own damn blood rite," Dipper said. Even Anscom looked up a bit at that one, and Slipgale paused in the middle of her wound stitching.

"I would tell you— if I knew what that was."

All of the rest of the Juska stared, Slipgale muttered a quiet oath beneath her breath, and Dipper could feel his heart locking up like a bloody pike had gotten its teeth into it. The clueless, honest look on the Taggerung's face wasn't helping.

Quite suddenly, Dipper was confronted with a face that would be more suited for a childish, clueless non-Juska beast rather than the warrior they'd found in the infected village.

_Bloody Hellgates, _he thought, suddenly fuming against Taike and Fate again, _what have they given us?_

"You kin't be serious," Anscom said, breaking the silence. For once, an almost gawking Dipper shared his disbelief.

"I'm rollin' with laughter," Finnicka said flatly. Slipgale stopped patching her back and ignored the horrified expression on Rangar's face as she moved around the side of the ratmaid, crouching next to her.

"Do you really not remember what a blood rite is?" she said, intently studying the rat's face, "'O _any_ Juska tradition, period?"

"No," Finnicka said, weariness leaking into her voice. Dipper felt something twitch unpleasantly in his face.

"Zenrisk an' the tribe are goin' ta eat her alive," Dipper said. His hopes sank further when he thought of Zenrisk's eager, impatient face. _If that scummer realizes we've brought him back a Taggernug that's more commonbeast than Juska… _"An' then, they're goin' ta reekin' eat us—"

"—an' then themselves," Anscom finished. The fox's grim look had returned to his face. He looked no damn kinder in the dark with glowing eyes than he did in the light. Rangar gave a half-strangled groan, his fingers flexing with the urge to find somethin' to hold onto.

"If we take you back ta the tribe, an' you don't even know the initiation ceremony for switchin' alliances, 'o what a blood rite is— oh Vulpez, I don't want ta think of how a clan meetin' would go; dad is goin' ta kill _all _of us—" Rangar briefly gritted his teeth and rubbed the edges of his eyes with one paw, not noticing how Finnicka perked up. A second later, the stoat pulled his paw away from his face. Dipper stared at the way hope was flooding through him again. _When the Hellgates did he swallow a bilgesnortin' sunbeam?_

"We kin teach you," Rangar said. "About the blood rite. About everythin'."

"…Rangar, are you serious?" Slipgale said, speaking up in the silence that followed. Rangar eagerly turned to look at her, and Finnicka followed his lead.

"Dead serious. What else kin we do? We just have ta give you a refreshin' course," Rangar said, turning back to Finnicka, "an' you should do alright once we get back ta the tribe."

"There are more Juska traditions than blood drops runnin' through our veins, Rangar, an' that's just considerin' the Raths," Slipgale warned. "We're not goin' ta be able ta teach her everythin', especially not about the other tribes, an' that's somethin' a Taggerung needs."

"We don't need everythin'," Rangar said, warming up to his idea. He stood up, giving in to the urge to pace a few steps around the fire. "There are four of us, an' we've got a whole damn forest ta cross ta return home. We could all take turns teachin' 'un thing 'o another ta her, an' since we're all differin' warriors, we'd give her enough ta cover her tail 'til she gets her memory back. I've got politics an' folklore covered," he said, ticking off one of his fingers, "Anscom's got stealth an' spyin' right down; Slipgale, you know plenty about long range weapons an' tattoo changin', an' Dipper—"

"—has paw-ta-paw combat, am I right?"

Dipper moved his focus to Finnicka as she smoothly cut Rangar off. She looked away from Rangar to meet his gaze.

"'ow did you know?" Dipper said. The Taggerung's gaze flicked over him and his tattoos like the light from the fire's flames, and Dipper abruptly felt like he was lookin' at somebeast else again.

"You looked ready ta snap my spine 'o anybeast else's back in the village, with 'o without a weapon," Finnicka said before she smiled. "Thank you for not doin' so, by the way."

"Dipper does know plenty about thin's snappin'," Anscom said, and Dipper glared at the fox and the snide, controlled way he was putting insinuations in his voice. It didn't seem any worse than usual… but then the weasel realized it was the same tone he had used after Sunstreak's death, and Dipper bristled immediately. _Fraggin' jrakat; is he bringing this up again? _Anscom stared back with cool, near unreadable eyes.

"If you would like ta tripelickin' learn more about me _snappin'_ things, Anscom—" Dipper growled, glaring back at the fox as he began to rise.

"Wait a minute," Finnicka said, cutting them off. Both fox and weasel stopped their glaring to turn and look at the Taggerung. The rat turned her head to sweep her eyes over all of them sitting in the firelight. The rain outside the rock shelter poured harder. "If I'm becomin' a Juskarath when I get back with all of you, does that mean I'm part of your family?"

Dipper had thought they were fraggin' done with gawking at the Taggerung. He was wrong.

Once the weasel had cleared away his brief moment of 'what-the-hell', he blinked and tried to get his tongue straight. The Eastern Juskaraths were sure as Hellgates a _tribe_, but ever since a quarter of them had defected over to Tabliz, they weren't really a _family._ _You couldn't even call the whole tribe seasons earlier __**that**__, _Dipper thought.

"We en't exactly a family," Dipper said, voicing his thoughts. "Tribe, yes, but that? Sonuvawhore, at this point, we're not even wholly a tribe."

Finnicka gave him a slight frown, as if she'd expected better.

"My old tribe was family ta me."

"We're not your old tribe… Finnicka," Slipgale gently reminded. She hesitated at using the unfamiliar name.

Rangar quickly spoke up before Anscom could join in the conversation with his ability to crush hope beneath his heel.

"Slipgale an' Dipper are right; we en't really a family," he said, drawing Finnicka's eyes back towards him, "but the tribe has interlocked families in it. Still— in a way, yeah, now you're part of our family. Glad ta have you, Taggerun— er, Finnicka," Rangar said, turning his smile up to the stinkin' highest level of charisma he had. And Dipper would be damned if Finnicka didn't smile back just as bright.

"Thank you!" she said, grey eyes lively again. "It en't the same, when you don't have a tribe 'o family behind you. Bein' alone has… difficulties."

"I know," Rangar said, trying to ignore the subtle glares he was now getting from the other three older warriors. Dipper felt like punching him in the shoulder. This was a fighter and beast they knew nothing about, amnesia aside; what the blazes was he doing? "I'm sorry that we're the only tribemates you kin meet now, but you'll see the rest of the Raths once we get back ta our territory."

Finnicka gave a nod, and while she was distracted for the moment, Dipper gave Rangar a more blatant glare. _What the Hellgates are you doin', stoat?_

Rangar broke out of his cheeriness for a split second to shoot a glare back at Dipper. '_Gettin' in the good graces of the Taggerung,_' his glare said.'_Shut up, weasel._'

Rangar shifted his attention back to Finnicka and dropped the glare from his face in record time, looking as if he hadn't changed his charming demeanor at all. Dipper wasn't sure whether he'd got that from imitating Anscom or elsewhere. Rangar had gotten pretty adderslaggin' good at giving the weasel stealthy glares whenever he was angry over something that couldn't be settled in a sparring match.

"Speakin' of family, I was wonderin' somethin'," Finnicka said. Rangar gave her a half smile, being careful not to drive up the sappy welcome too far. There was a careful line to be walked when it came to gaining trust; Rangar seemed to be naturally in-tune with the bloody thing as much as he was with his own tattoos.

"What? How long the trip is goin' ta take?"

"Well, that too," Finnicka said. She matched Rangar's half smile with a pleased, expectant look, as if everybeast had already agreed to deliver something to her. "Could we go lookin' for Janno? He's the only family left that I remember— as I've said— an' I want ta see him again an' make sure he's alright. Just before I leave. It feels fittin' that the rest of my new family come ta meet him, too."

Anscom narrowed his eyes at her final words. Rangar paused, a slight frown crossing his face. It was replaced by curiosity. "Was Janno part of your old tribe?"

"Not… exactly," Finnicka said slowly, her eyes drifting over to the fire's edge. They began distant and hypnotized again. "But he was around here somewhere; I kin feel it. He still is. I don't think he was a Juska," she said, her voice trailing off with all the air of Atiya being sucked into a trance—notes of ferocity embedded in her tone— "but he _mattered._ An' I want ta see him an' make sure he's safe."

"Well…" Rangar said, struggling to reply.

"If you don't have any idea as ta where he is besides 'nearby,' it's goin' ta be a problem ta find him," Anscom said. "We're in a plague area, an' our own tribe needs us back as swiftly as possible. Pokin' around the damned is an invitation for death 'o worse."

"I have ta agree with Anscom here," Slipgale said, and Finnicka looked at her with just a touch of defiance, making Rangar give an uncomfortable squirm only Dipper noticed. "Now en't the place 'o time ta be searchin' for somebeast you have problems rememberin'. But if we hear anythin', 'o any of your memories return, then we'll do our best ta find him."

"I don't know this 'Janno', but I think it'd piss him off if we managed ta run inta him, but were all bitten, useless, an' ravin' mad," Dipper said, "especially if his cousin was 'un of those bitten. It would make us goddamn useless ta boot— an' give him more enemies."

Dipper didn't try to add that while killing close friends and family under battle stress could be difficult, it was… possible.

"You all have a point," Finnicka reluctantly admitted, disappoint evident in her face. She frowned, her brows furrowing, and her fists momentarily clenched. "If I could just _remember—_"

"You remembered Janno when you saw Rangar's markin's for the first time, didn't you?" Anscom said. The fox gestured at her. "Bein' refreshed about more Juska culture an' tactics might bring back your memories swifter. The more you learn with us, the faster, the better; you may have a better chance of recallin' Janno's location."

"Hmm. Makes sense," Finnicka said, sounding thoughtful. She gave a half smile at Anscom afterwards. "Well, kin't wait ta get learnin', then. Nothin' like espionage ta bring back information."

Her smile bloomed near completely when Anscom gave her a faint nod, a spark of amusement dancing in his face. If what he was doing wasn't for their own good, Dipper would have called Anscom out.

_So 'learning the things we're trying to teach you anyway and following us home' will help bring back your memories an' find your family, huh?_ The weasel thought, loosely crossing his arms as he noticed the shielded expression in Anscom's eyes behind everything else. _I'm goddamn sure it will, Anscom. _

Dipper saw the happiness across the seemingly unaware Finnicka's face as she took up chatting with Rangar again, oblivious to the simple back-up snare she had stepped in. The weasel warrior managed to catch Anscom's eyes across the fire— and the fox gave him a deliberate, slow blink in return before turning away to speak to Slipgale, as undisturbed as ever.

Dipper resisted the urge to give a fang-bearing smile in return. _Well played, you filthy bugger._

So with the sheets of rain still pouring down around the shelter the Juska had managed to take— and streams of water dripping down the edges of the outcropping in fringes of rain— the four warriors made five remained beneath the sandstone shield, watching darkness fall down upon them with the storm, and waiting for the sun to rise.

* * *

Dipper wasn't sure what time he woke up in the middle of the night. Whatever time it was, it was too muckin' late. The weasel slowly broke out of slumber to find himself curled up on the cool sandstone floor, cheek and shoulder pressed into the rock, and the dying firelight in front of him casting a soft glow everywhere. It deepened the rings of red color and eroded ridges on the inside of the sandstone, magnifying the ceiling into a deep, ripple-filled canyon if you stared at it too long. The natural ceiling seemed even higher and more foreboding.

_Some of them look like the color of dried blood again, _Dipper thought. He grunted quietly and rolled over to face the shelter entrance. The slumbering forms of his other fellow Juska cast stretched shadows across the rock.

As always, Anscom was tucked as far from the rain and possible, and curled into a hard, unfriendly little ball. Rangar had an arm thrown out and a leg sticking at an awkward angle, the stoat splayed all over the place like he was trying to sleep in bed and keep tight hold of two imaginary wenches at once. Slipgale was a curled-up crescent with her tail tucked about her legs, her chain-inked body oddly relaxed and peaceful. She didn't seem capable of ever wakin' up, Dipper thought.

He knew that if attacked, any one of the warriors around him would greet their awakener or silent watcher within seconds.

Rangar preferred plexus punches and dagger stabs. Anscom went for the eyes, throat, or warm tendons, regardless of weapon. The deep-slumbering Slipgale would be on her feet and neck-snapping with a bolas within three seconds. If present, Sarck would jump up with her at the exact same moment, except with a kick to the gut or dagger-pommel to the knee; why take out the neck when his mate had it covered?

Dipper used whatever weapon or item had he had around, his own paws included; he was pretty sure he had made it up in three seconds the last time he had been ambushed by another beast during his sleep.

Sunstreak would have been up in two seconds. He had always preferred a stomach kick, which worked well and goddamn hurt. Dipper would know; he had been on the receiving end on one of those multiple times during sparring… and once otherwise.

The weasel only realized he had been staring at the sun ray tattoos that encircled his left shoulder when a subtle movement near the fire alerted him to the fact that he wasn't the only warrior awake.

It had taken all of the Juska hours to calm themselves down inwardly and force themselves to sleep after realizing that they finally had their _Taggerung _with them, but once they had, all of them had spread out to sleep in a circle about the small fire. Finnicka had been their unofficial center again. Whether it had been out of the will to protect her or the urge to make sure their prize didn't sneak off without bein' caught, Dipper didn't slaggin' know.

Now, however, the ratmaid Taggerung was no longer lying on the floor. She was sitting close to the fire, her head bowed slightly, and Dipper's eyes traveled up and down the huge gash that covered the back of her head. It was deep, jagged, and held together by filaments of healed muscle string and thread. Slipgale had been looking at it earlier while she sewed up Finnicka's back. The rat was lucky the blow that had scarred her hadn't bloody well shattered her skull and killed her.

Dipper had already been thinking of death earlier when he looked at the sun rays inked into his skin. He stomped down the cold shudder that ran through him at thinking of their only hope and their only Taggerung being killed.

The weasel was debating on whether or not to roll over and go to sleep again when he saw what Finnicka was doing.

Finnicka was sitting right before the dim fire. An inch or two closer, and she would be in it, or catching pieces of ash flecks in her fur. There weren't many branches left burning, but there were enough to keep alive a small, crackling ball of flame in the center. The wharf rat had her head dipped down, and the half of her Taggerung markings across her face glowed softly in the light with the rest of her fur, leaving the rest of her bare face as reminder of her incomplete title. Her long tail lay curled around her, still coated in smudges of mud.

The ratmaid was picking up small pieces of burning branch on the fire edges. She would grab those that were already aflame and hold them between her fingers, slowly watching the fire eat down the wood and closer to her paws. Just when it looked ready to burn her— when the fire was practically between her fingers— she would drop it at the last second. Then Finnicka would just pick up another twig and start it all over again.

She was watching the way the fire would destroy and blacken the twigs with intent, close captivation, and Dipper felt his fur start to bristle uneasily with every close call Finnicka seemed an instant away from getting her fingers burned— as well as the fascination she displayed. Was she _tryin' _to get the fire to nip her damn skin with a scorch? She had already burnt three or four beasts alive today; the weasel thought that she would be tired of flames and watching things crisp.

_Apparently not._

Finnicka played with fire for a solid five more pieces before she finally stopped. By then, Dipper had already lowered his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He did nothing when Finnicka gave a quiet sigh, dropping the last twig. She moved away from the bonfire to curl up. The fierce concentration from her was gone. She turned her back to the firelight, and to him and Rangar.

Dipper was rolling over to face the stone wall again when Finnicka yawned, stretching one arm.

"Goodnight, Dipper."

The weasel froze. He tried not to let his tensed up shoulder blades give away his surprise and awareness, but it was hard. Dipper forced himself to look at the rock wall instead of turning around again. He gave no reply to her. Shortly afterwards, he could hear some quiet shuffling as Finnicka made herself comfortable on the floor, and then that noise died away, leaving nothing but the sound of pouring rain outside.

Dipper was supposed to be getting rest for the next day, and Hellgates, he knew it. But he couldn't help but clench his fists slightly at the thought of Finnicka's absorbed stare at the fire. It wouldn't be the first damned time he had heard of somebeast giving that kind of riveted stare to something.

_They told me I did the same thing towards bloodshed an' weaponless brawls when I was younger,_ he thought.

The weasel remembered endless screaming, blood, and bones snapping beneath his paws as he slammed a blurry-faced opponent into the ground.

It took Dipper longer than usual to fall asleep.

* * *

A.N: Questions towards Dipper and Farflit are closed for now. This chapter gave me a bit of stress while writing the first part, for one reason or another, but I suppose it's… alright. This definitely isn't one of the chapters I'm prouder of. I'll just try to do better on future Juska sections. Dipper and everyone deserve it. —SL


	20. Chapter 17

"_Did you finish foldin' up yer uniform an' puttin' it away?"_

"_Yes, m'am."_

"_Good. Get yer tail over here, then."_

_Farflit immediately obeyed, skittering over from the bureau almost twice his height. He pretended that he didn't just have to stand on tiptoes to put his clothes in it. The fox cub sat down in front of his aunt in his night pants, tufts of fluffy fur poking out of his undershirt back and front. He eagerly looked up from the floor to the bedside chair Aunt Tilda was sitting in. The faint orange firelight lit up the inside of the bare and basic room, and the blackness outside the window made the outside a lightless void in comparison._

"_Alright," Aunt Tilda said, looking down from her throne of a chair down at her awaiting nephew, "tonight, we're coverin' history. But first, we're reviewin' basic combat positions; I know you remember some from last night. Let's hear you list three. The soldiers who enter combat first?"_

"_Vanguard," Farflit chirped._

"_Soldiers who cover the back during retreat an' to serve as a block for ambushes?"_

"_Rearguard."_

"_Soldiers who cover the left an' right sides?"_

"_Flankers."_

"_Decent enough," Aunt Tilda said. "Now, onto our actual lesson. It's a review of Mavern's history— which you've been startin' to cover in class already, an' I don't feel like pointlessly repeatin' what Killbri says— so I'm makin' this quick. Yer gettin' off easy tonight, cub. Who was the first real founder of Mavern? Whole name, 'o yer wrong."_

"_Faegan Blueshard," Farflit said, taking up the same voice he used to recite things to teachers. "Also called Faegan the Fearless. He founded Mavern after he got out of the woodlander army that was fightin' off Tealgun the wolverine's forces up north."_

"_Tealgru the wolverine," Aunt Tilda corrected. "Don't get cocky about yer answers before you've learned them properly. Nushka was tellin' you some history earlier, wasn't she?"_

"_Yes," Farflit said, remembering his stay at the Scout Lead's home when she was giving him some stories. Nushka never stopped telling them while he was there. Not like he asked for them, or anything. "I got some basic history from her. An' some history about the War of the Red Frost, even though we weren't in that 'un."_

_Farflit paused as he remembered a quieter interlude in the usually brazen vixen's tales._

"_Lieutenant Killbri says Mavern doesn't do things up north anymore, but Nekon went up north to fight, didn't he?" he said, tilting his head up._

_Aunt Tilda observed him before seeming to give a quiet sigh, but Farflit knew that wasn't what it was, because Aunt Tilda never ever sighed. _

"_Yes, Farflit. Nekon went north to fight in the War of the Red Frost seasons ago, when it began," she said. "It was none of Mavern's business 'o concern. He got himself involved and left Mavern to go help the beasts up there anyway. He didn't come back."_

"_Why?" Farflit said. "That was against orders to go, wasn't it? He could've just stayed at Mavern an' helped the beasts here. There en't a difference." Farflit remembered the way Nushka got a bit quieter and her crooked face looked a bit older whenever Nekon was mentioned, and his fluffy fur bristled in anger, aggressively puffing him to twice his size. "The war ended eight seasons ago an' Nushka loves him an' he's her __**son**__; why didn't he come back?" Farflit demanded._

_Aunt Tilda gave him a dry look. "'Un, love doesn't always overcome defiance an' unrest, an' two, why do you think Nekon is still alive?"_

_Farflit blinked in surprise, and his mouth snapped shut at Aunt Tilda's answer. He stared at her a little longer before he managed to get his thoughts together, and she patiently stared back._

"_Does Nushka know he's dead?" Farflit said, recovering._

"_I have no doubt she's considered it," Aunt Tilda said. The firelight lit up the tips of her fur in the dark. "Nushka has lost plenty of companions an' family. Nekon wouldn't be the first. An' I didn't say he's dead, I was just askin' why you believed he's alive."_

_Farflit blinked again._

"_But you said—"_

"_I said Nekon might be, not that he is," Aunt Tilda said. "There's a fair chance Nekon survived; he was resourceful an' strong, an' Nushka trained him herself. I just said he didn't come back."_

_Farflit openly growled at her last statement when it hit home, and he crossed his arms._

"_That's stupid. __**He's**__ stupid. He needs to come home if he's alive; Nushka needs him back, why won't he come home?"_

"_He might not be able to." _

_Aunt Tilda tapped her finger on the chair arm._

"_As for why not, Nushka might know the answer, but hold yer tongue about it an' don't ask her, because it's none of yer business." The vixen glanced out the dark window. "An' on that note, we need to finish yer lesson before it gets darker. Since yer all fired up about the north, we'll focus on some history an' military tactics up there, startin' with the 'uns Faegan used against Tealgru."_

"_If I was Nekon an' my mom was waitin' for me, I'd come back," Farflit muttered. _

_Aunt Tilda stopped her oncoming lecture and grilling, and she looked down at Farflit, who was still sourly staring down. All Farflit could see were the stone seams that made up the floor of his room and the rest of the house, and the chair legs and Aunt Tilda's grey feet and sleek tail tip. There was a quiet rustle as Aunt Tilda shifted position._

"_Come here."_

_Farflit looked up at her. "What?"_

_Aunt Tilda reached out an arm, the same expression on her face as when she was awaiting one of her soldiers to follow through one of her commands. "Come here. Nushka said you wanted to learn more about the north, an' so we are. But not until you get up an' move."_

"_I don't know how this has to do with learnin' 'bout the north," Farflit grumbled, but he made sure not to grumble too much, and he got up from his place on the floor and went over to Aunt Tilda. She leaned over and easily plucked him from the floor, lifting him into her lap._

"_Do you think every'un spends their time split up an' wanderin' in the ice?" Aunt Tilda said. She tapped Farflit's chest right over his heart. "Lesson 'un of the north: conserve body heat an' huddle, 'o you'll freeze. Stay close to yer soldiers an' avoid open plains. You will die an' lose fingers, toes, 'o limbs otherwise."_

"_Have you been up north?" Farflit said, settling himself in Aunt Tilda's lap after a bit of wiggling. She wasn't like Nushka, who teased in her snide way to try and get him to smile and sit with her, and then had a sneaky grin when he refused. Aunt Tilda was just… Aunt Tilda._

"_Yes," Aunt Tilda said, grimacing momentarily. "I have."_

_Farflit felt her paw rest on his back, right beneath his shoulder, and everything felt warm and close since he was pressed up against her, but not in the suffocating, grabby, cooing way. He let himself rest against her chest and feel her heartbeat closer— 'cause they were practicing about how to maintain proper body heat in the north, and when Aunt Tilda wanted you to do something, she wanted you to do it whole and do it right._

"_What did you do up there?"_

"_I had to go bail Nushka out of an ambush at the tail end of the Red Frost War," Aunt Tilda said. Farflit looked up to pay attention from where he was comfortably situated in her lap. "We weren't part of that war— none of Mavern was— but a training patrol I was in had gone up further north than usual, an' Nushka had managed to piss off a wolf warlord that had wandered too far south…"_

_Farflit stayed sitting with Aunt Tilda and listening to an account of broken noses, angered wolves, necessary disobedience, lost sons, and burning bloodied snow until his head began to droop, and she carried him to his bed. He got woken up early the next morning for drowsing off._

_When it came down to it, Farflit's family was two beasts: Nushka Popinfur and Tilda Anorak._

_Nushka wove him tales of heroes, rebellions, and dirtied paws, of mighty fortresses being brought to their knees by the courage of one, and hope-bearing serpent-slayers, with every story holding the tangency of trails of smoke. Tilda gave him the solid stones of history that held the weight of victories, failures, and struggling rebounds, of twisted biases with deep bitter roots, and the redemption that twined them all together. One vixen gave him the sky, and the other gave him the ground._

_And Farflit couldn't have one without the other, because what was a world that was halved?_

* * *

"Laikan, take another position; yer goin' to get in the way—"

"The only reason I would be gettin' in the way is because ye are a slagged bundle of hurt that just got out of the infirmary, Farflit. I'm not movin'."

"Don't be fightin', lads," Wringer said casually, the weasel loosening the coils of the spiked whip he held in his paws. A short sheathed sword and the unspiked whip hung on his opposite side. "You'll have plenty of time for that later; tis a pity ta break the calm while it's nice an' quiet."

Farflit silenced at the overseer's command. He gave Laikan one last look before facing the empty maw of the tunnel in front of them. A cluster of armed miners hung back from the entrance with their weapons in various stages of being unsheathed— or in the case of hammers, being slung over their shoulders. The unsettled aggression around them all was enough to rival the one that followed a hornet's nest being prodded.

_But they can all gut somethin' far better than a bunch of hornets can,_ Farflit thought. He held back a scowl at the pain that came from reaching for one of his dual swords, which had found their old positions strapped across his back again. Laikan swore beneath his breath, but the rat made no attempt to tell him to 'slow the damn bilgewater down' again. Discomfort radiated from the way the rat's claws were tapping over his curved cutlass hilt, and how close he was sticking near to the grey fox and the surrounding miners. His tattoos were a bright spot of color in the poised crowd of brown, tawny, and grey pelts spread around the outside of the tunnel selected for rescue and purging.

The more cluttered the crowd and terrain, Farflit thought, the more Laikan seemed to be in his element. The fox kept his eyes on the tunnel. It was unfortunate that everybeast else didn't have a scrap of the same comfort— being prepared to kill their friends and coworkers at any moment had taken that from them.

As far as Farflit was concerned, they should save their grief for later; what was necessary was necessary. Cry behind closed doors when the mission was finished. He tensed as there was a quiet echo from the tunnel and ignored the pain that jolted through his shoulders. Behind him, Laikan drew his cutlass.

Everyone was in position. Wringer had already gathered enough of a capable group to serve as a defense line in case any sickbeasts tried to escape from the open tunnel. The mere thought of it made Farflit want to be ready to unsheathe his swords at any moment, but he knew his stitched wounds and the low throb in them wouldn't let that happen. For a while, he was going to be slower. At least the assembled bunch of miners and their grim faces meant that none of the plague carriers were going to get out alive, whether Farflit dealt with them first or not.

The miners were going to seal up the sickbeast-flooded tunnel like the rest of them when a sobbing, broken-armed, dust coated rat had come crawling out of the passage before dawn, smelling of spilt oil and fear.

"_There are others down there, an' they en't— they en't been bitten, an' they're trapped— Vulpez, oh hell; don't kill me; please don't kill me,"_ he had sobbed, stumbling down on his cut knees, and the tears trailing down his face carrying little round specks of oil with them.

His companions had broken open a barrel of lantern oil in an effort to repel the sickbeasts and make them believe it was water, Farflit thought. They had been half successful. Some of the miners had been able to shut themselves away in a supply pocket further down, and one had managed to escape without being bitten.

The one— a shivery, slick-furred rat bundle of paranoid limbs named Triscan— was now in the infirmary with Lorn. The rest of the miners familiar with the tunnel he'd burst from had uneasily clustered around the outside, wordlessly passing around the idea of a rescue mission before sealing the tunnel, but none of them daring to give the thought shape. Hellgates, it was their _friends _and _coworkers_ down there, but to get bitten by one carrying the Madness—

_An' then, _Farflit thought, glancing at the thick wooden supports that lined the outside of the mine entrance, _trust Erskine to volunteer to lead a rescue mission himself to pull the wary out of their shells._

Farflit grit his teeth for a moment. Erskine was down there with a group of volunteers who knew the mine layout, Mank and Harran included— an' why the Hellgates those two were placed together on an important mission, Farflit didn't have a damn clue— and the thought of the wharf rat at risk of being bitten made the fox's fur bristle.

He needed to give motivation to his miners, and thought he would make up for not spotting the plague spread fast enough by working alongside them instead of hiding behind stand-ins and his home's walls, but Erskine was their leader _overall._ If he was bitten, he would have to be killed, and it would put the mine's order and optimism at risk. They would be a decapitated adder, Farflit thought: the head would still be able to bite a few hours after it had been severed, but it was still dead, and its motions would stop soon enough. Erskine was being foolish by leading the first rescue mission himself.

_But isn't it a good sign of a leader to work among his soldiers instead of standin' back?_

Farflit's brows furrowed as he tried to balance out the two ideas, the fox giving a small frown and making the scraped side of his muzzle sting in the process. Laikan glanced at his face, and the rat resisted the urge to make a frown back at him. The miners were unnerved enough; a further irritated Farflit was the last scummy thing they needed.

_The only reason I didn't suggest sealing up the tunnels and cutting our losses, _Farflit thought, recalling the mouth of another dark mine and a pair of blue eyes, _is because a lot of beasts can still be saved by the rescue missions. More than the amount that we could lose on them._

Laikan looked away from Wringer and the mine when he spotted something moving in the crowd behind them. The ex-corsair's expression didn't change, but an instant later, he narrowed his eyes and frowned.

"Aw, damnit; what is the whelp doin' here?"

The half-growled, naturally annoyed tone in Laikan's voice that spoke of dealing with young ignorance and one aborted tattoo made Farflit turn his head. At first, the fox only saw the rest of the miners standing in their squashed circle, hardened beasts of all different species hefting weapons of every scale and size. At least a fourth of them were wielding their pickaxes and sledgehammers instead of any blade, and the chalky sandstone powder from their earlier work clung to their fingers and paws in smooth gloves and socks of orange-red.

And then, Farflit saw a smaller form struggling to slip through the crowd's edges— his own smaller hammer swung over his shoulder and his head bobbing to peak around any beast in the way while he struggled to the front— with the rat's tail slithering behind him and trying to avoid any wayward stomps from feet.

The grey fox felt every bit of welcome in him die.

Janno had just gotten to the front of the defense line's side, warily watching the tunnel with the rest of the beasts next to him, and part of his face creased with worry. It was his father leading the mission in there; he doubtlessly had come to check on him.

_An' am I going to doubtlessly make him leave, because inexperienced adolescents have no place on the battlefield, _Farflit thought, _whether they believe they do or not._ The fox pulled away from Laikan, going straight for Janno in his not-so-hidden place, and ignoring the subtle glance he got from Wringer towards both of them.

"Farflit—" Laikan said, trying to grab him by the elbow as the fox shrugged him off. Farflit focused his stare on Janno, and then the sound of crashing wood, yelps, and pounding footsteps came echoing out of the mine.

Farflit whirled around and drew his swords in one smooth snap as every miner shut up and bristled with hefted weapons and bared their teeth.

The grey foxed ended up doing the latter, though out of the tear of pain that had ripped through what was left of his uncut muscles rather than aggression. Farflit kept his teeth gritted and swallowed down a ragged swear, his eyes blurring momentarily as he tried to keep his arms locked in the steady position of holding both sword hilts at his hips, the blades slanting up before him. A shiver went up his left arm that he sure as Hellgates didn't want.

_Damnit! Keep steady, no falters, _Farflit thought, forcing the slight watery blur out of his eyes. His shoulders whined in protest.

The footsteps got louder, Farflit could hear Laikan cursing at him for having put himself closer to the front and center of the crowd, the fox braced his stance as every last other beast did, and Wringer managed to slip closer to the front middle of the crowd, his whip beginning to uncoil from his fingers.

There was a sound of clattering rocks as a stumbling figure came out of the darkness, almost scrambling on all fours at one point, and it was only Wringer's raised paw that stopped some of the archers from shooting it then and there. Farflit's fur stood on end as he remembered the sound of Hobb's ragged breathing and pacing about in the dark, and he tilted the edge of one blade forward.

In a burst of movement, the beast dashed out into the clearing the miners had made, and a grimy, bleeding vixen hit the floor on her knees and forced her paws up above her head, shaking as she ducked down in front of the lurching crowd of miners.

"Don't-hurt-me-I'm-not-bit; Erskine sent me out!" she yelped. One of her paws was scraped and torn, and layers of holey skin in various shades of red and pink pulled over her raw knuckles instead of fur. Her oil-splattered pants legs and tail sagged while she kneeled in wilted surrender. "DAMNIT, I SAID ERSKINE SENT ME OUT! THE OTHERS WITH ME ARE COMING!" she screamed, seeing the miners snarl and lunge forward out of fear. "_STOP!_"

There was a hiss, and the gathered beasts stopped in their lurch forward and backed away as Wringer neatly cracked his un-spiked whip above the crowd. His spiked one still hung at his side.

"No attackin'," Wringer said, still keeping that calm, nonchalant tone to his voice. Farflit's adrenaline and tense muscles shuddered quietly at the order. It was the same thing as a command on a horde stake-out: no assault until told so by the squad leader. "Give her a chance ta be examined an' prove 'erself. Don't be gettin' excited yet. Jigal, help the others in lookin' 'er over, will you? Leave her with some dignity on; the oil's already messed up her clothes for you lot. We en't back in town on drinkin' day, as nice as that'd be."

Wringer turned his gaze on the vixen as she swallowed. The miners around them were growling and swearing to themselves as they paced in place, discomfort and fear haunting their eyes more than the exasperation they pretended to voice.

"Go with Jigal," he said. "He'd be the blaze-faced ferret over ta the right. Don't worry about them gettin' rough, all we're doin' is givin' a check for a bite 'o the like. Nothin' big. We're not doubtin' your honesty, but it never hurts ta check if some'un's bendin' the truth a little in cases. You en't goin' ta be hurt."

The vixen nervously glanced over at Jigal and the tense group of beasts around him, who were awaiting her consent. Farflit felt her eyes travel over the ring of miners that were stuck between desperately wanting her to walk free or to kill her— from ink-laden, cutlass-wielding Laikan, to a crouching stoat in the front with a bandanna tied over his missing ear and spear in his paw, and to poised, dual-wielding Farflit himself— all the way to the patiently watching Wringer. Her eyes lingered on his spiked whip. Something bobbed in her throat.

She hauled herself up to her feet, shaking only on the first step as she crossed the clearing over to Jigal and his helpers. He gave her a weak apologetic smile. Janno looked on in morbid curiosity as Jigal hesitated before grabbing the vixen's shoulder. She shuddered, but did nothing. Jigal visibly sagged with relief at not getting teeth in his arm. Farflit could see his stiff posture and pinned ears relax slightly.

"Paws above your head," he said, and the vixen obeyed, keeping a strained watch on those clustered around her. Jigal and the three other beasts— a weasel with hatchet cheekbones and two cinnamon-speckled rats— began to feel her down for bites. She flinched as one of the rats shoved up her pants leg and brushed over a cut, and Jigal was far from pleased as he was forced to pull the side of her pants down over her left hip to investigate a blood stain.

"Poor slagger," Laikan muttered, and Farflit didn't know who he was referring to.

Just as the vixen was cleared and some relief lightened the air, there was another round of distant screaming and cracks from within the tunnel, the miners tensed again, and Janno's curiosity was immediately replaced by horror as he recognized one of the deep voices bellowing.

"_Dad_," he said.

"Stand your ground, every'un," Wringer said. Farflit could see the subtle shift in his body as his paw trailed down to his other, not-so-harmless whip. "No killin' unless they go after you first. Any archers out there, check afore you fire. I'd like ta not have fletches betwixt the ribs of friends."

Janno was still staring at the mine— and now even struggling to get a bit closer; Farflit almost marched forward then and there to push him away from the front for the safety of himself and those behind him— and the sound of drumming footsteps, scrambling, echoing crunches of bone and rock, and swears began to boil from entrance.

Farflit set his thick jaw and concentrated on the oncoming movements in the dark, squeezing the swords hilts harder and feeling the blades become extensions of himself. A cursing Laikan broke out of his spot in the crowd to come back the fox up when he realized Farflit wasn't returning to his old position.

"—you Hell's-brig-bound fox _fragger,_" he growled, Farflit only catching some of the words as Laikan joined him,"why the fishballs do ye try ta pull off this muck when you're injured—"

There was a thud of a rock hitting the ground, a surprised shriek, and the whole group of assembled miners almost jumped. A wildly bobbing lantern light appeared in the back of the visible section of the tunnel.

"I KIN SEE THE LIGHT!" a triumphant voice inside the mine yelled. "IT'S RIGHT THERE!"

"YOU BLOODY GIT, THAT'S THE LANTERN!"

"NO, _GODDAMN YOU!_ THE LIGHT RIGHT THERE! _THERE!_"

The lantern light coming towards them heaved even more.

"That's great, Mank; now STOP YELPIN' SOMETHIN' THAT SOUNDS LIKE IT'S COMIN' FROM A DEATHBED AN' _RUN!_"

A surge of tangled silhouettes came up in the mine entrance, a lantern suspended in front of them, and before the miners could do anything, there was a yelp as the leader of the running group tripped. Curses followed as those behind crashed into him, and a whole mass of tangled vermin from nearly every species came bursting out of the mine in one struggling, kicking ball. The lantern sailed free of its holder's grip, Laikan dodged out of its way before it nailed him in the shin, and its frame bent as it smashed into the dirt and rolled over a few times. It came to a stop at Janno's feet, still burning by some damned miracle.

Farflit couldn't make out a single species in the desperate flood of unwillingly interlocked limbs, waving arms, and weapons that jutted out at random angles from the blob by the mine.

His and the outside miners' confusion and bristling hackles were extinguished when— in a burst of dirtied, oil-dotted fur— Harran the cross fox popped out of the top of the body pile, even as the other vermin were struggling to their feet and running away from the mine entrance.

"Twelve beasts saved, not includin' us, none of 'em bit— includin' us— an' look at that, I'm alive an' on top of the pile!" The fox threw up his arms, snickering and grinning wickedly through the stream of blood that was coming down from his reopened brow wound. "HA! Holy Vulpez, I'm on fire!"

There was a muffled snarl beneath Harran, and he was almost thrown off the heap of what remained of the few tangled beasts. A furious, incisor-bearing face of a familiar rat appeared.

"GET OFF ME," Mank snarled. "I will find a torch an' I will _literally _set you _on fire __**an' stomp your face in with an axe ta put it out **_if you don't _GET OFF ME._"

"C'mon, Mank; I thought you liked it when some'un else topped," Harran said, snickering again, but his eyes were wildly flicking over the crowd and kept going back to the mineshaft, and his laughter was high-pitched. Farflit could practically see the other fox's heart beating against the walls of his chest, and his smile was tainted and warped by adrenaline.

"You fraggin'—"

Mank tried to move, and he gave a ragged gasp of pain and a whimper. The rat struggled to prop himself up on his elbows and wriggled around to see his legs, Harran still sitting on top of his back. Farflit could see the jutted angle of one of the rat's ankles even before Mank groaned.

_Broken, _he thought, remembering some common wounds fellow Mavern soldiers gained during battles. _Snapped, an' probably with a clean fracture._ Everyone was already being checked down and pulled back into the safe ranks for except for Mank and Harran… and Erskine.

A pit of grim foreboding grew in Farflit's chest as Janno swallowed down some strangled words, realizing the same thing.

Mank would have continued to stare at his ankle and the mine entrance in horror as more screaming and cracking noises resumed inside the tunnel passage if Harran hadn't given a sudden snicker at the rat's groan of pain.

The rat snapped his head up to stare at the fox. And Harran— still strung out on _I-just-lived_ adrenaline and riding out the remnants of a wave of fear— couldn't keep from giving another high pitched giggle.

"…I'll kill you," Mank whispered. Instead of getting up, tried to lever himself around to face Harran, trembling the entire time as his paws lunged for the fox's throat.

"I'll kill you; you streak-backed, sniggerin' bastard; I AM GOIN' TA GRAB YOU BY THE NECK AN' SNAP THE DAMN THIN' AN' _KILL YOU! VULPEZ HELP ME, I WILL!_" Mank screamed. Harran was howling with laughter at him now, but backpedaling off the rat's back simultaneously with wide eyes, and Jigal was struggling to break through the crowd and get to both of them. "I AM TIRED OF YOUR STUPID, _NEVER-ENDIN'_ _**LAUGHIN'**__!_"

Farflit took off, Laikan following him. The fox shoved aside the miners in front of him who were trying to deal with the other twelve rescued beasts, his shoulders yelping at the sudden movement, and he could see Wringer uncoiling a whip. Mank was snapping like a final burnt thread, was snapping like anybeast put under too much pressure or who had saw too many things they didn't want.

_He's going to kill Harran and not even going to know to regret it until his throat is crushed in._

Laikan snarled a curse as spotted something moving in the mine behind the grappling duo. "Damnit, Farflit, behind them—!"

Something spun. There was a strangled scream and crack. Beaten flesh smacked across rock as a sickbeast with a busted skull hit the floor right next to them, twitching its last. Harran and Mank screamed. Farflit almost lunged forward at seeing the huge beast lurking in the mine entrance emerge next to them, but he stopped when the familiar figure stepped out into the light.

Janno almost wilted with relief.

"Dad!" he yelled. "You're alright!"

The towering, imposing form of Erskine climbed free of the tunnel, swinging his just-used hammer back up over his shoulder where it belonged. He was scuffed-up and blood-splattered, but alive nevertheless. The wharf rat glanced over his shoulder before looking down at Harran and Mank, who had gone silent. Mank was frozen in his attempt to twist around and throttle Harran, and the fox looked immensely relieved, though he wasn't paying attention to the fallen rat now next to him.

"You two need ta check what's followin' behind you sometimes," Erskine said flatly. He lowered his hammer in exhaustion.

"Erskine! You got out! I was expectin' it, what with you wieldin' the hammer of doom-an'-skull-bustin' an' all," Harran said, "but when the second lantern got knocked out after you told us ta go on ahead— well, ah, the sounds of sickbeasts screamin' is about as hope-boostin' as hearin' some'un swallow glass."

Erskine barely gave Harran and Mank a one-over enough to make sure they weren't too severely hurt before turning to Wringer. The weasel overseer turned towards him with a practiced lean of his whole body. Farflit didn't know how his oxymoron of inattentive attentiveness existed.

_Because he's hidin' something beneath all the laziness an' wants it to._

"Go tell the other groups around the tunnel branches ta finish sealin' 'em up," Erskine said. "Every'un in that mine now is as good as dead." Wringer left to carry out the order. Erskine turned back to the defense line around them, giving them a fierce look to keep them in check. "All the rest of you, get workin' on closin' this entrance up. Half of you stay on guard an' watch out for stragglers; I en't dealin' with anymore bitten beasts today."

"Yes, sir," half the crowd rumbled, the other half responding with mute movements towards the pile of massive bricks that had been gathered earlier. They dispersed quickly.

Erskine paused before stepping away from the mine and looking back at Harran and Mank, the former of who was awkwardly trying to help the latter walk while they both avoided eye contact. Farflit could tell the pause had been intentional. Drill instructors used it to give hope to a young fox, making them believe that for one fleeting beat, their novice mistake had gone undetected.

_It never does_, Farflit thought.

"Harran? Mank?" Erskine said.

The fox and rat duo making their limping escape froze. Jigal was suddenly not interested in coming closer.

"…yes, sir?" Mank said, swallowing before he slowly turned around, still levering his weight on Harran. Farflit could see the debate going through the fox's head on whether or not to try and shrink behind the rat to hide.

"If you two start quarrelin' again while others lives are at stake, includin' us," the wharf rat said, "then I am personally goin' ta find a torch an' axe an' set _both _of you on fire myself," Erskine growled. His shoulders twitched as he barely kept from getting closer and towering over the two. There was a forced restraint to his voice that came from teeth being gritted together.

"We'll, ah, keep that in mind, sir," Harran said, sensing the mental process of '_count to ten so you don't kill the idiot_' going on inside the looming Erskine's head. He tugged Mank backwards, trying to shimmy around Erskine but failing with the injured rat hanging on him.

"You damn well better," Erskine said. He moved to go supervise the tunnel-blocking, a slight frown on his face as he recalled something. Harran and Mank continued to limp off, eyeing the mine distastefully and refusing to look at each other.

Farflit sheathed his swords. He ignored the brief jerk in his muscles it caused, and Laikan cast him a withering look as Janno moved forth to help separate Harran and Mank. Jigal had been drawn back by another beast asking for help, but he and Harran exchanged brief glances.

Harran and Mank didn't realize that the sickbeast that had been twitching on the ground behind them wasn't quite dead from Erskine's blow until it staggered up to its feet, blood trickling down its face from smashed fissures in the side of its face, and lunged after them.

* * *

A.N: Things go downhill: the story.

Apologies for the late update, though this part of the chapter has more plot in it than the last few, thankfully. Prepare for more rescue missions ahead!

This time, instead of Dipper and Farflit answering questions, it's going to be different: you can ask questions to anyone _but_ Dipper and Farflit, as long as they appear in story, and not in a flashback. There's also going to be a special question treat at the end of the next chapter as well, so I'll see how that goes.

Harran: "So what are you lot waitin' for? There are now opportunities for submittin' pensive moral questions, inquirin' about deep staples of the universe, askin' some'un awkward questions about their sex life— y'know, all that good stuff!"

Jigal: "We'll be waitin' for the questions. Barrage away!"

Rangar: "This is goin' ta be fun, 'o somethin' I'm goin' ta regret for seasons."

Slipgale: "Probably the latter."

-SL


	21. Chapter 18

Harran and Mank were trying to struggle back to the infirmary— Janno moving forth to separate them and their awkward, eye-contact avoiding movements— when the twitching sickbeast they were passing staggered up its feet, coughed up red, and went for them.

Farflit saw its movements too late, and he didn't have time to curse as he saw the ragged weasel lurch up behind Mank and Harran, even as the wash of realization hit him. Erskine had failed; it was alive, Mank and Harran were exposed, and the other miners had scattered off with none of them in a good position to attack.

Harran blinked in surprise at seeing the blur of motion in the corner of his vision, and his eyes widened as an oath formed on his lips. His paw awkwardly lunged down for his dagger far too late, the presence of Mank leaning on his shoulder slowing him like a dead load.

"HEY!"

_Crack._

Janno threw the lantern in his paws and nailed the sickbeast in the face with it. Nose cartilage crunched like loose gravel. Erskine whirled around as the weasel screamed, clawing at its face, and it dove right for Janno.

There was a swing of a hammer, a crunch, and Farflit's heart descended back into his chest when the sickbeast hit its knees in front of Janno, its entire front cheek smashed in from the younger rat's hammer blow. Janno stared at it in horror before it gave a strangled screech again, and then he slammed the hammer into the back of its skull, driving the metal into the spot Erskine had beat in previously. The sickbeast went down on its side with a thud. Its arms and legs milled a few times before it fell to twitching with blood pooling beneath its head and mouth. This time, Farflit knew it wasn't getting up again.

Janno was left holding the scarlet-smudged hammer in front of him as if he no longer knew what to do with the weight and staring at the puddle growing beneath the weasel's head.

Harran was first the break the silence.

"Thanks for the cover, Janno," he said, sheathing his dagger. Mank— seeming to realize that he and Harran were frozen right next to the mine entrance— broke out of his posture.

"Er, thanks, Janno," he said, giving the younger rat a jerky wave.

"You're welcome, Mank," Janno said, still staring at the fallen body in front of him. There was a faint underlying tone to his voice that made it odd and distant. Janno limply swung his hammer back up over his shoulder. He didn't even look up as Erskine came storming over to him, every bit as intimidating as Aunt Tilda would have been.

"_Janno_—" he started.

"Yeah. Ah. Hey, dad, could you give me a minute?" Janno said, still talking in the same odd tone. Erskine stepped back and stared as Janno calmly turned on his heel and walked away. He passed Harran and Mank, pushed a few miners aside, and went over to some sparse bushes.

Janno promptly emptied everything in his stomach.

Laikan grimaced at the splattering sound, and Farflit watched Janno stagger up and wipe his mouth with the back of his arm. The rat was now shaking as Erskine moved to comfort him.

"I need ta go right now; Mank an' Harran need help gettin' ta the infirmary—" he said, voice vaguely higher pitched as he tried to scramble off, and only Erskine catching his shoulders stopped him.

"Janno, calm down. It's alright, ya hear me?" Erskine said, gripping Janno's shoulders harder as he tried to squirm away, and the wharf rat craned his head down to try and meet his son's averted eyes. "He's dead, but he was a sickbeast that was goin' ta die anyway. It's alright. _You're _alright."

Janno sucked in a deep breath, his chest still heaving in and out harder. Erskine took one look at him to make his decision.

"Janno, go home. Right now."

The command was enough to jar Janno out of his spasms and make him jerk his head up.

"What? No! I kin't leave! There's goin' ta be more rescue missions!"

"An' that's why ya damn well shouldn't be here!" Erskine growled. "It's too dangerous for ya ta be hangin' around the sickbeasts, ya need ta go back!"

"I need ta help!" Janno snapped, leaning towards his father, even though he was still shaking and being held by the shoulders. Farflit could see Erskine grinding his teeth together. "This mine is my home as just as much as every'un elses, an' I don't see them cowerin' an' runnin' away from protectin' it!"

"One, they've killed beasts before, two, they know how ta fight for what's on the line," Erskine said, his voice rising as he loomed over a paled but defiant Janno, "an' _three,_ they're not my Fates-damned SON, who IS goin' ta listen ta me, _'o else_."

"I'm not defenseless anymore!" Janno retorted, pulling out of his father's grasp and stepping back. "I'm not goin' ta sit back an' hide while every'un out here is fightin'," he said, sweeping his paw over the crowd, who was determinedly not watching the confrontation, "an' I'm bein' worthless, even though I know how ta fight now!"

"Oh, so ya know how ta _fight_ now—"

"Yeah, I do," Janno said coolly, and Farflit could see lingering nausea in his movements. He paused for a second, shaken, and it was enough to make Erskine frown in concern before Janno straightened out his expression. "You just went in headfirst inta a rescue mission yourself, an' so did Mank an' Harran. You kin't tell me to sit back when I know what all of you are doin'!"

"I damn well kin," Erskine said, looking ready to murder.

"Hellgates, Dad, _stop,_" Janno growled. He pulled back and took a quick breath when he saw the look on Erskine's face. "I— Dad, please. I need ta help. Somehow. Look, I don't care where you put me: I'll stay in the back away from combat, if that's what you want. But let me stay out here an' help," Janno pleaded. "I'll go insane at home thinkin' about every'un if I don't."

Erskine looked down at his son's hopeful if partially sickened expression and Farflit could see him hesitating, the gears turning away in his head over his decision. Janno could see it as well, and the younger wharf rat was holding his breath. The sounds of miners working in the background and awaiting more future orders didn't help Erskine's patience.

Finally, Erskine let out a low exhale that was more a vent of the smoke rising from the contained boiling temper inside him than a sigh, and he briefly pinched the bridge of his muzzle. Janno gave a faint grin of triumph that he wrangled down when his father gave him a glare.

"I'll let ya help in the back lines," Erskine said. "But _only _in the back lines, ya understand me? Ya don't set foot in those tunnels 'o so much as get near them, an' if ya get over your head, ya find Wringer an' get the hell out. No exceptions." He gave Janno the hard look all parents used to emphasize the sealing of a deal. "Is that clear, Janno?"

"Clear, Dad," Janno said, giving a nod of agreement. But Erskine wasn't done yet.

"You're also goin' ta stick close ta some'un who knows what they're doin'," Erskine said. "Meanin', either Mellia, Wringer, 'o Farflit, dependin' who's not on the rescue missions."

Laikan choked on a laugh, but Farflit stared at Erskine as Janno immediately turned around to look at him. The flicker of hope in the young rat's face was enough to make Farflit's heart fold up on itself and crawl back further in its box.

_No,_ he thought.

Erskine made direct eye contact with him. Farflit was reminded of another leader's stern, unyielding eyes.

"_You will be part of this squad. They will be yer soldier family, an' you will form bonds with them, 'o everythin' will come fallin' down on all of you durin' a mission. Cooperate. Plan. An' guard them with yer life an' sharp tongue. You understand me, Farflit?"_

"Farflit, keep an eye on him," Erskine said. It was not a request. He glanced at Laikan, who twitched faintly beneath Erskine's look as the two shared a mutually fiery and unpleasant memory, and the corner of the wharf rat's mouth twitched down for a moment. He rolled over the hammer handle in his paw. "Laikan… do what ya want."

_In short,_ Farflit thought, _'do anything but ink my son again or I will hurt you.'_ An unpleasant tick tapped the fox's chest as he saw Janno's face again.

But an order was an order. And Erskine had given it, much like how he had given the order to Farflit to train a lonely, desperate, seven-season-old Janno six seasons ago.

"Aye, sir," Laikan said, subtly eyeing Erskine like a rope ladder rung that had snapped out from beneath him before.

Farflit didn't look at Janno's face as he nodded to Erskine, his stitched face burning. The past seemed to snicker at him as it repeated itself… though with both previous players older than before.

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Erskine said. He didn't bother to thank Farflit for agreeing. The fox wouldn't have been able to refuse anyway. Farflit appreciated the fact that the quarry owner didn't mince and waste words on such things. It was more reassuring of his capabilities than any 'thank you's that would have been given.

"Erskine, sir!"

Erskine turned away at hearing the call.

"What?" he said.

A hefty pine marten with wraps twined around his arms and a smudge of sandstone on his nose popped out of the crowd.

"There's another tunnel that branches off this one to the east, but it's sunken in, and almost vertical. Do you want us to put bricks over it, or a metal grate?"

"A grate would be better; we'd be able ta see below," Erskine said. "Tell your crew I'm comin' ta look at the tunnel."

The pine marten gave a brief salute before disappearing back into the crowd. The mine nearby was already steadily being covered with low-grade sandstone bricks.

Erskine turned back to the group one last time. Janno had moved over to stand next to Farflit— leaving an obvious gap of space between both of them— and Farflit was trying to only focus on Erskine instead of the traces of expression on Laikan and Janno's faces.

"Be careful," Erskine said. He was looking more at Janno than the other two miners. For once, Janno didn't look like he had the strangled urge to roll his eyes. "Watch yourself, Janno. Don't get—"

Erskine paused.

"Caught off-guard?" Janno suggested, ignoring the weasel corpse being shuffled off by some miners to burn and bury.

"…caught off-guard," Erskine said.

Farflit held his tongue out of respect for a superior.

Erskine and Janno hesitated awkwardly near each other, neither father nor son aware of how to say goodbye, but the moment was ended when Erskine strode off into the throng in order to deal with the side tunnel. Farflit, Laikan, and Janno were left to stand together.

"So we're his cubsitters now," Laikan said. "That's bilgerottin' great."

"I'm not a cub, an' I'm right here," Janno said, giving him a dirty look.

"If you two quarrel in the midst of this I'm going to shut both of you up," Farflit said. Janno hesitated at his tone, and Farflit didn't look back at him, focusing coolly on the beasts around and them.

Since he had been charged with it, he was going to have to watch Janno. He wouldn't be able to fight on the front lines or guard Laikan's back. There were thousands of more productive and necessary things to be doing instead of playing keeper for Erskine's son, and everything was probably going to be just much of a waste of time as it was before.

_But the faster he's trained and broken in,_ Farflit thought, _the faster he can look after himself._

_It's not as if I'm going to be much use on the front right now with my injuries slowing me._

Farflit almost wanted to be wielding his swords so he could sheath them harder than usual— but then he considered the burn of pain that would come with it, and the fox turned sourer. He sank the feeling down as he attempted to get on with his duties.

"…Farflit?" Janno said.

"Laikan, you can team up with somebeast else for today," Farflit said, turning to the corsair. "I need to brief Janno about keepin' him alive. It would be better for you to be elsewhere."

Laikan gave a quiet snort. He sheathed his cutlass.

"Tch, this is a load of damn tripe," he said. "But fine." He paused, about to give Farflit a rough push of farewell on the shoulder, but reconsidered when he saw the fox's wounds again. Laikan's paw shrank back. He settled for tapping the fox's upper arm with his knuckles. "I owe ye a tattoo for this, you know that?"

"Just because you owe me somethin', it doesn't mean that I want it," Farflit said. Laikan looked amused, but he didn't laugh.

"Bleedin' watch yourself," Laikan said. He begrudgingly turned his head in order to include Janno in his statement.

Before Janno could respond— if he was going to— Laikan departed. Farflit spoke to Janno before the rat could pick the conversation grounds.

"If you're goin' to stay with me, you have to obey my orders, 'o you could get killed. Follow me."

"I— alright," Janno said. "Will do."

Farflit felt the rat's eyes linger on his scarred face and shoulders before he pried them away. It was as subtle as a brick to the skull.

He led Janno out of the crowd as the rat tagged along next to him, the fox looking for a more suitable and less occupied place to make Erskine's son sit down. If he was right, then the remaining shock Janno had due to killing a beast was about to wear off shortly, and there would be plenty more hyperventilating, crying, and possibly puking. That was not something Farflit wanted to deal with in public. Or deal with, period.

_You can't expect anything else from an untrained adolescent who has only toyed with injuring others before._

It took half an hour for the remaining shock to wear off.

Janno sat on a shale block, trying to talk to Farflit, while the fox polished one of his swords in effort to regain the habit and shot down every one of the rat's suggestions. Janno was attempting to go off on a random tangent other than the ground rules Farflit was discussing, while the fox sat on another shale block. His grey coat almost let him blend into it.

Farflit had taken them to a quieter portion of the quarry, the place where humungous bricks rested in stacked piles intended for customers before they were delivered, and often with a fox escort Farflit was part of. It was a grid of cut stones stacked upon each other in rectangles crudely tied with ropes even Gittem found coarse. The color of the general area transitioned from red to tan to grey with every different section of stone, summarizing the hues of mining life in one place. It smelled of settled dust and paws scraped raw with pulling ropes, and the ghosts of arguments over load placements lingered in the air.

There were no nearby tunnels that were unguarded.

"So we're just goin' ta stay in the back, I guess," Janno said, rolling over his hammer and watching it spin with his eyes focused on the red smear that clung to the edges of it, "unless some sickbeasts get past the whole front, somehow. In which case, we'll— _I'll_ have ta kill them, since you're goin' ta return ta the front when you get better, Wringer will probably be up there already, an' I'll have ta stick with Mellia…"

Janno paused. Farflit slowed in cleaning his sword when the rat didn't speak up immediately, still staring at his hammer. Seeing his gaze, Farflit lowered his sword. Janno started as Farflit extended the raggedy polishing cloth to him.

"Wipe the blood off," Farflit said. "It's goin' to get harder the longer it sits."

"Right," Janno said, swallowing his brief surprise. He looked at the cloth as if he was expecting to find past blood splotches from Farflit's sword that he could read like soggy tea leaves, but there was nothing. No blood currently marred the cloth or swords.

Farflit kept the cleaning rag stuck out until Janno took it. The rat propped up the hammer in his lap, getting ready to wipe the surface made even filthier with blood. Farflit watched him automatically press the cloth to the hammer.

"Y'know, I need ta do this more often," Janno said. He started to wipe the dirt away, leaving the cloth dark and stained. The rat looked in bemusement at the cleaner paths behind the cloth, as if he didn't know that the hammer would be shinier beneath the grime. "I tried keepin' up with cleanin' it after missions with Jigal, but since I would go minin' afterwards, it felt pointless. When you're goin' ta go straight back ta workin' again, why wipe off the sandstone grit an' blood from… fights…"

The tattered cloth's rubbing halted. Farflit looked up from his swords as Janno tried to take back his voice. He was still focused on the hammer.

"From fights that ended up…" Janno stopped again. Farflit could see something bobbing in his adolescent throat. The rat was faintly shaking.

"Oh, _Vulpez,_" Janno said, his voice strong with a crack of hysteria. He crushed the cloth in iron claws to keep it from falling from his grip, its dirty edges peaking from between his fingers. "Goddamn _Vulpez._ They're dead. I just… I just…"

_Your first kill is nothing more than a passing event,_ Farflit thought and wanted to say, _something that everyone will do._ But that was a lie. And beasts fed on lies either grew weak and stupid with the threads holding their moral innards together, or strong in their hold of blinding disillusionment. Farflit knew his thought was only true within Mavern.

Janno's shaking increased, and the fragile supports holding back his distress and panic finally snapped in the silence. Farflit could see the tremors of the unprepared taking over his body, and one breath hitched as his eyes began to widen. The nauseous air from earlier clouded around him, and Farflit's ears pinned back in concern.

To Farflit's surprise, Janno did not throw up again. He kept his mouth clamped in a firm, flat line, and Farflit watched him force out the quivers, staring intently at his shaking paws like he could immobilize them with his eyes. After another bout of shaking, the rat stopped. Farflit looked back at his swords as Janno roughly rubbed something wet from his eyes with his knuckles. A muffled noise came from his throat. Farflit wouldn't have heard it if he and Janno were not alone in the stacks of sandstone and shale and slate.

_He's holdin' up better than I thought he would._

Finally, Janno went back to cleaning his hammer. He wiped the light smear and stray blotch of blood from the metal before reaching out the cloth to Farflit again, not looking at the fox's face.

"You kin have that back."

Farflit took it. He glanced at the one cleaner streak and circle on Janno's hammer, both where the blood had been. The rest of the weapon hadn't been touched.

A long, long silence reigned between the fox and rat afterwards that Farflit didn't register as awkward until Janno gave an uncomfortable squirm, his neck fur bristling. His eyes stayed on the ground.

"…as I said before," Farflit said, picking up in the slack silence without a change in his voice and continuing to polish his swords, "maintainin' yer weapons is important. You may not be doin' much fightin' on the backlines, but still keep it cleaned. Mellia an' Wringer will tell you the same. Wipe yer hammer 'o blade off after each battle 'o individual kill to prevent blood rust."

Janno almost flinched at the blunt delivery of the last words. Farflit saw the same despondent expression in his eyes that brought back memories of a small rat cub mentioning his deceased mother and Nushka speaking of Nekon's departure, and suddenly, the fox found irritation springing in his chest. _He has no reason to feel remorse; why does he allow this to happen to him already?_

"Stop feelin' guilty about killin' the weasel," he said. "There is no point in it, like there's no point in you starin' at the floor."

Janno gave him a chastised and angry look, but it was an expression wrapped in as much fear and other raw emotion and confusion as the anger. Farfilt kept his flat, cold disposition.

"What am I supposed ta feel, then?" Janno said, a snap in his wavering voice.

Farflit neatly crushed the other wavers of something deep below his surface to keep unbroken eye contact with Janno.

"Not guilt. You did nothin' wrong."

Janno blinked and looked up at him.

"But I—"

"You killed the weasel because he was goin' to kill Harran an' Mank, 'o bite them an' lead to the same result, an' because he was already dyin," Farflit said. "It was necessary. There was nothin' wrong with it."

Janno was still cautious of Farflit's sharp opinions, but it didn't keep him from leaning forward on the shale block towards the fox, his raw, bloated emotions and privacy making him brave. Farflit refused to move from the other block he was sitting on, or cease his attentions to his swords. He had ignored them for far too long.

"What, no scoldin' for cryin' an' pukin'? For not havin' control?" Janno said. He was only half sardonic. The rat was exposed again, and looking at Farflit with dry tired eyes and the gallows hope that signified he expected one verbal stab or another.

Farflit focused on the side of his left sword instead of Janno's face. He knew which one was more important. The fox wiped across one of the larger scrapes across the blade, a scar from one of the various times somebeast had attempted to stab him in the chest.

"There is nothin' wrong with cryin'. There is plenty wrong with doin' it an' not havin' control."

Janno did a double-take.

"What? But you—"

"Cryin' comes with distress," Farflit said, flipping his sword over. His half torn tail swept over the stone block behind him, and a quiet echo of other miners working on tunnel purges and rescues whispered through the rows of stacked bricks. The miners were gathering the low grade bricks for tunnel sealing in another section. "You don't show distress in front of enemies 'o allies an' friends when they are relyin' on you for battlefield support. It marks you as the weak link. Off field is different— unless you don't have friends."

Janno stared at him. _I sense a stupid and or invasive question comin' up,_ Farflit thought. The fox moved his thumb over a tiny star-shaped chip in the metal. He remembered the driving force behind this one. _Aunt Tilda was never merciful on or off the battlefield._

Farflit's internal stirrings of something were quelled faster than if he had used the sword to clip them away.

He wasn't the clumsily broken young soldier with insomnia anymore, Janno wasn't the clingy and hollow-eyed little cub who could get away with dumb questions, and Farflit would damn well remind him of it. The words he told Mellia about Janno echoed in the fox's head: _I'll only join his family when Hellgates freezes over._

"Do you cry?" Janno said boldly, risking the last bit of dignity and courage he had.

"No." Farflit sheathed his sword. It made a satisfying cold click as it shut. "But every'un knows that you do. Get up. It's time to go back to the tunnels."

Janno's ears reddened and he stood as Farflit strode off back towards the main center of the quarry. The fox didn't look back to see if the rat was following him, even though he knew that Janno was trailing closely but never walking alongside him. Janno didn't want to try and be equal with the grey fox today.

It was difficult enough to do while were they were sitting down.

Farflit did not make any room for him. Janno was behind, and Hellgates, he could stay behind. It would change nothing for the rat to be level with him: Janno would still be an inexperienced juvenile who would need to linger behind Farflit when any confrontation came anyway. _And when he's able to keep stride with me,_ Farflit thought, navigating out of the rows of brick, _then he'll be off on his own an' taking care of his own back anyway._

Erskine and Wringer had already arranged future rescue missions for at least seven more tunnels, three of which were in Farflit's vicinity. Small volunteer teams would be heading in with beasts familiar to the mines to try and pull out any uninfected miners they found. If any of the volunteers came out bitten, they would be killed. They knew this. Everyone knew this. But if they succeeded, they would be saving lives.

Once he healed more, Farflit would be the first in line to volunteer. He didn't intend to let Laikan go in without someone covering his back, and someone had to fill the positions on the rescue team. There were beasts to be rescued.

The other miners wouldn't be his old squad back at Mavern— or even the fighting companions he had made with the Damsontongues during the voyage down from Mavern to the quarry— but they would be something.

Farflit walked to the backlines with Janno in tow, intending to find Mellia and debrief her about the situation. Up above the quarry, the sky was a faint, cloud-spotted blue, and the horizon up north still remained dark and sodden with rain.

The grey fox dryly hoped that the northern skies weren't as bright as their prospects.

* * *

_The training grounds seared into the northern half of the military town were not cluttered this evening. The horizon was only a blue rind that peaked up from behind the distant battlements and scattered trees within Mavern's boundaries. Evening was almost calling for lanterns to be brought out and uniformed cubs to be shuffled inside._

_If one relaxed, they could smell a hint of weapon polish and clipped morning glories that lingered around the packed dirt of the training field._

_Farflit was too focused to notice or care._

_The fox was breathing harder as he took a stance in front of the training bag. It hung like a battered creature from a noose. Farflit drew back his fist, and he was off again, right-hooking the bag before jabbing it with his left, and his knuckles sunk into it. It jerked and folded with all the thud of a hordebeast being sacked in the stomach before it straightened out, flopping on the end of its tether. Farflit punched the bag when it bounced back, keeping his fists up and forcing himself into a ruthless rhythm._

_He was part of Mavern now, part of the forces, and yet Aunt Tilda still hadn't started to train him personally. He followed everything to the letter, but no position in his squad had changed; he marched in the same place and took the same tripe from Sergeant Dakin every day._

_Farflit punched the bag harder when imagined Sergeant Dakin's smug, ever-present face, and past traces of verbal spars in his head turned into a volley of blows and a sidestep. The fox's breathes stuck low in his throat._

_Did Aunt Tilda think because he couldn't stand the sergeant, he couldn't tolerate her personal training? He was succeeding in the regular training; it was his opinion on incompetence that drove him and Dakin apart in everything but quarrels. He disobeyed and crossed Dakin at points because Dakin was wrong. It didn't translate to him being unable to train properly._

_Farflit thought of the air of pride that Aunt Tilda had carried when he was sworn in, and how it hadn't reappeared since then, even when he reported the results of his drilling._

_He gritted his teeth and roundhouse kicked the training bag hard enough to send it swinging back with an echoing thud._

_Farflit immediately stepped back into a defensive stance, fists up again, and drew back to deliver another round of punches when the training bag swung forward, his fiery eyes fixed on it. There would be more training. He would come to the sparring grounds in his free hours. The sergeant still deserved calling out when he did something asinine, but apart from that, Farflit's drilling beneath him would be perfect. He needed to be better, he needed to fight harder, and he __**would.**_

_The fox stopped his first round, and he backed off from the punching bag, his chest still faintly heaving and body heated. Something wet stung his knuckles. Farflit lifted his left fist to see that he had split two of them open. They were bleeding. The rest on that fist and his other paw throbbed with abrasions. He hadn't noticed them before._

_Farflit reached into his uniform pants pockets and pulled out some bandages, deftly wrapping his raw knuckles up. He tied the wraps beneath his wrist when he was done, getting back into position as faint crimson dots appeared on the bandage surface._

_This wasn't good enough, Farflit thought, drawing back to uppercut the training bag again, and feeling the burn from one of Aunt Tilda's apathetic expressions more than his knuckles. Anything he did right now wasn't good enough. _

_And Farflit would work and train until __**he **__was__good enough._

* * *

A.N: Another chapter. Hooray. And next, we get more Dipper, Taggerung, and legitimate plot advancement. Hoorah. (You may channel my voice as deadpan as you would like at the moment.) Question answering time:

**1.** **For Slipgale: Have you heard the song- One of Us, by Heather Dale? For some reason I think of you in that song because you are always alone with the boys... okay, now a question- what made you want to be a fighter? Don't give me the every Juska fights answer either- you have a mate and could just be a 'brood-er... rat?" (sorry can't remember her species)- but instead you are out traipsing around the forest...**

Slipgale: "Well, I have now. Me thinks it is not a bad song, for what it is. As for why I wanted ta be a fighter, I kin say that— why not? I started learnin' ta fight young, an' I was damn decent at it. I got better as seasons passed, an' I loved doin' it. There's nothin' quite like the feelin' of cuttin' down enemies an' the rush of bein' back-ta-back with friends while you're at it, an' returnin' ta cheers from the rest of the tribe. Resignin' myself ta camp an' bearin' pups is the last thin' I was thinkin' of, an' anybeast who heavily disagreed could just step on in the sparrin' field with me. They still kin (though, fun fact, they don't anymore.)

An' that was 'un of the reasons Sarck an' I ended up tagether: he wanted some'un ta fight alongside him, not just another _ferret_ female ta stay back at camp in the tent."

**2. Question for Laikan, how did you and Farflit meet?**

Laikan: "Well, that's an easy 'un, if a bit unpleasant. We both met at the quarry. I had already been workin' with Erskine an' Wringer for a slaggin' season 'o so, an' then I heard there would be a load of new beasts bein' added ta the line-up— mostly foxes. I thought it was a cruddy idea, seein' most foxes are damned stinkin' thieves that need a keelhaulin', but I digress. An' surprise, surprise; guess who ended up joinin' my section of the quarry a season later?

Funny thing about Farflit: he kin be a goddamn intolerant bastard when he wants. Especially when he's around beasts that he believes are worthless, which means thieves, Juska, murders, an' hordebeasts… an' corsairs. Whether they're no longer 'un 'o not.

We spent the first two seasons of workin' together just tryin' not ta kill each other."

_Any late questions to the previous chapter will be answered! And for this one— any questions asked will be answered by Farflit and Dipper… as seven season olds. Yes, you are getting a chance to interrogate them as children. Have fun._

—S.L


	22. Chapter 19

_It was going to be one of those days._

"_Tabliz is gettin' a bit mouthy, I think."_

_Anscom looked like a smug serpent curled up on the log next to Dipper and Sunstreak. If he wasn't right, Dipper would be inclined to poke him in the eye and wipe the smug look off. The weasel squirmed uncomfortably as Sunstreak leaned across him to speak to Anscom._

"_He's gettin' a little mouthy, yeah," Sunstreak said. He looked at Anscom with interest. "What's he been sayin' now? Slipgale told me he was gettin' loud about Lady Brielle last time, but…"_

"_I would hope he's not dense enough ta mock Brielle 'o Zenrisk in front of either," Anscom said dryly._

"_He wasn't mockin' them," Sunstreak said. "Just talkin' idleness that en't got any meanin'. You know how Tabliz is."_

"_I know he's a jrakat at times," Dipper said. He leaned back, trying to get out of Sunstreak's way. There were bruises along his chest and belly from the spar with Anscom, and they ached when Sunstreak even came close to bumping them._

"_You're a jrakat at times," Sunstreak said, giving Dipper a wry look._

"_More than just a few times, I would say," Anscom said. Dipper could feel his not-quite-mucking-taunting eyes on him, subtly mocking him like he was a bruised and bleeding Taike. Dipper's fur prickled slightly._

"_You would goddamn know, wouldn't you, Anscom?"_

"_I would, seein' you target me with the same amount of creativity every time."_

"_Dipper en't creative unless he's rippin' somebeast apart," Sunstreak said. "But he seems ta irritate you just fine."_

"_You sonuvawhore, it en't that hard ta irritate Anscom," Dipper said, crossing his arms. "I don't have ta be creative."_

_Sunstreak gave a quiet snort of amusement, leaning back. Anscom momentarily preened himself._

"_You're bein' quiet over there," Sunstreak said, after the fox didn't respond. He leaned forward to see Anscom better, resting his elbow on Dipper's shoulder. It usually wouldn't be a problem— but it was one of those days. Dipper's shoulder tensed for a moment. "Got anythin' ta rebuke with, Anscom?"_

"_I rebuke Dipper with my existence," Anscom said. "An' the fact that I won our spar."_

"_We tied," Dipper said, giving a slight squirm. Sunstreak's elbow just settled on his shoulder further. That damn sparring match had made everything sore. "An' that's bein' generous ta you."_

"_Hardly," Anscom said._

"_Why don't you just bu— damnit, Sunstreak, move!" Dipper snapped, shoving the ferret away from him. He almost sent the other warrior tumbling over the back of the log._

_Sunstreak caught his balance. He stared at Dipper in surprise before it turned into a glare. "What the blazes, Dipper? I was tryin' ta talk ta Anscom!"_

"_You weren't then; your muckin' conversation was over ten Fates-damned seconds ago," Dipper growled, recoiling as if he could draw his bruises back into himself, along with the infuriating tingle which tied them together. It was usually Anscom who brushed at injuries out of spite; he didn't need Sunstreak doing this. Even on accident._

"_Don't be a keenin' pile of tripe," Sunstreak said, irritated, and Anscom watched the rising quarrel with interest. "Who counts the seconds when a talk is over?"_

"_I— forget it," Dipper said. He roughly waved at Sunstreak and Anscom, resisting the urge to cross his arms again afterwards. "Just bloody forget it."_

_Sunstreak gave him an odd look, but he went back to talking with Anscom again afterwards, laying his elbows on his knees to crane forward instead of leaning over Dipper._

_Dipper was left to wonder what the hell his chest bruises were doing._

_He decided to grind Anscom's face in the dirt the next spar._

* * *

When it came down to it, Juska folklore was a twisted, fluid mess of briars.

Somebeast outside of the tribes might mistakenly assume that everything ran parallel, and that the stories and histories that the Juska shared with each other both in peace and conquering were like various neat rivers— all of them lined up next to each other, only occasionally touching, and most following the same flow. Some of the even more ignorant might assume that all Juska folklore ran together in one big river, in one cluttered current of mythos and markings that were all the same.

That was a stinking lie, Dipper thought. And a stupid one, at that. They were all Juska, and they were all tribes, but none of them were _identical_— an' no tribes were united on that level.

In truth, Juska folklore was like a big mess of waterways: there were hundreds of rivers twisting around bends and hills, each one crisscrossing each other or branching off together. They cut off each other's currents; they caused stagnant, dead pools of water and confusing rapids that deviated off into at least five other rivers, and nobeast knew where. There were random ponds and still patches of marsh that were snuck in between waterways, but didn't touch any of the rivers they were near, and it was baffling to wonder how they got there. Which pond belonged to whom? How the Hellgates did it get there? Whose was it now, really?

Dipper got headaches when he tried to consider the layout of their folklore too much, so he veered off in his thoughts whenever he neared that topic. It was a long time since he was sat down in a group of other Juska around a fire and had their base myths and deepest rivers poured onto him.

Which was why listening to Rangar tell folklore to Finnicka for the past five hours they were hiking was giving the weasel the biggest sense of nostalgia he had felt in just as long.

"Once, in the times when Juska tribes bore the names of conquerin' spirits an' gods, an' Vulpez hadn't been locked beneath the earth," Rangar said, starting a new story as he and Finnicka jumped over a fallen log, both of them trailing behind Slipgale and marching in front of Dipper and Anscom, "two fierce warriors wandered the lands. Their names were Nique and Nycerca, an' they were powerful cubs of a tribe ruled by the spirit of survival— because when it's all said an' done, an' wars are over, who's the strongest? The warriors who died, 'o those who lived?"

Rangar gave a small dismissive wave.

"At any rate, the two sisters were cubs of the tribe chieftan himself, Geminesk. Both of 'em were always vyin' for his favor. Nycerca was the fiercest an' the boldest, who bore their markin's with pride; Nique was the quiet an' cowardly— the weak. She could fight almost as well as her sister, but offerin's, lies, an' threats made her shiver an' often drove her ta stab her sister in the back many times."

Dipper knew where this tale was going. Slipgale was struggling not to smile when she heard the two sisters' names. Next to Dipper, Anscom's mouth pulled up in a dry half-smile of amusement at the sight of Finnicka eagerly tilting her head up to look at the taller stoat.

_He wasn't smilin' earlier, _Dipper thought, _especially when the Taggerung wanted to learn folklore over more fighting and what's going on now between the tribes._

"But Nycerca would grit her teeth an' pretend not ta see the betrayal, help her kill the threats, an' take all her whimpered an' pathetic apologies an' start over again," Rangar said.

"She didn't get suspicious 'o hurt? At all?" Finnicka said, raising her eyebrows. Dipper tried not to look at the lumpy stitched scar on the back of her head that was causing more problems than the bloody sickbeasts.

"When you're a god's cub, you en't got much kin who are as resilient an' long lived as you are," Rangar explained, as if it were common knowledge. "You have ta take what company an' family you kin get. Besides, Nique was still a damn fantastic fighter. But 'un day— while the two sisters were done with destroyin' a rival warrior an' washin' their paws of the blood— they got a message from their father, sent by 'un of their clan messengers. _'I need you two to come back to the tribe,'_ he said. _'Your father is goin' to finally decide which gifts to give both of you as his heirs an' growin' spirits.'_"

Dipper squashed a patch of wet grass beneath his feet as Rangar went on about the messenger. All of the Juska were treated to a spray of heavy, fat raindrops slipping free from the tree branches above them, and it was enough to make Anscom narrow his eyes in distaste again. Dipper was used to the cool plops of rain and the slushy, sodden grounds at this point.

"Both Nique an' Nycerca were just about damn floored. Their father had been holdin' their presents an' inheritances over their heads for hundreds of seasons. You kin do that, when you're an immortal god of survival," Rangar added matter-of-factly. "An' now he was finally goin' ta give them up. He'd been hintin' at two things: 'un, immortality, an' two, somethin' ta honor the great skills 'un of them had honed. _'We'll be right back,'_ Nycerca promised, already imaginin' which 'un of 'em was goin' ta get which. So they started on back ta their tribe."

His final line almost made Dipper roll his eyes or give a quiet chuff of amusement. _It'd be bloody easy to get home if we were all cubs of spirits,_ Dipper thought. _Being able to step over hundreds of miles of forest would be damn nice._

Once they had retrieved the Taggerung from the diseased town and left their rock shelter, the Juska were forced to go south instead of retracing their previous path back towards home. They were skipping around the plague zones and as many miner settlements as possible as they did— though the main obstacles here now were Finnicka herself and the forest that surrounded them.

None of the rainclouds from the fateful prophecy storm had alleviated. The thunder and lightning lessened, but nothing more. The rain fell in sheets of unfaltering wetness, and when the Juska realized that it was not planning to cease any time soon, they had swallowed their inhibitions and marched out into it. Only now, on the middle of the fourth day, did the rain actually find a lull. Dipper was glad to see the world around him without the scumsucking haze of water in the way.

The forest seemed to be done with all this tripe too. The grass and foliage were a slippery, slicked-down mess like waterweeds at the bottom of a strong current, and all the tree trunks and wood were swollen and damp from the storm barrage. Wreckage of snapped limbs and leaves stripped from plants during the storm were scattered everywhere, and half of the trees stooped down towards the forest floor, moaning beneath the weight of the water and stress placed on them. They were more bent than a broken warrior paying homage to his defeater.

Dark leaves seemed darker beneath the clouded sky, stray broken and shattered trees lay across the Juskas' path in stubborn blocks, and Dipper was surprised that none of the hunching trees around them had snapped and fell on anyone yet. It would be just their goddamn luck.

The weasel warrior pulled back to reality just as Rangar finished detailing another part of the story, where a rival tribe kidnapped Nique during the sisters' journey home and convinced her that she should kill Nycerca and take both gifts from her father for herself. Nique had just returned to her sister and lied about why she was gone… and then lured Nycerca into a trap.

"Nique led her sister out inta the middle of a tangled, clustered swamp, all the way over ta deep, dark well. An' while Nycerca was lookin' over how bottomless it was, Nique took a nearby rock, drove it inta the back of Nycerca's head, an' shoved her in. She put the lid on the well afterwards, dusted off 'er paws, an' went on her way ta the tribe."

Finnicka made a quiet noise Dipper couldn't understand. It could have been an exhale— or a muttering of the word 'traitor.'

"'_Father,'_ Nique said, kneelin' before the chieftain, _'I'm home. Nycerca is tangled up with fightin' another 'un of Vulpez's serpents again, an' the last I saw of her, I don't think she's goin' ta get free any time soon. What did you want us for?'_"

Rangar continued his story, imitating the higher voice of a female and ignoring the look on Finnicka's face. Whatever it was, it was giving Slipgale concern. Dipper frowned, an uncomfortable pinch traveling up his spine.

"'_Well,' _her father said, shruggin', _'I was goin' ta give gifts ta both of you, but since you were the only daughter loyal enough ta show up, I'll let you hold on ta Nycerca's gift as well. I've been livin' for thousands an' thousands of seasons; which one of my cubs takes my presents no longer matters ta me.'_ So it was that Nique was given both immortality like her father an' a set of intricate, fierce markin's meant ta show that she was a mighty warrior even among warriors."

Rangar paused to glance at Finnicka's unfinished markings.

"Nique was too busy lookin' over her tattoos in fascination ta see the dark look in her father's eyes. _'You have the present your sister was wantin' since the day she underwent her blood rite,'_ he said. _'The tattoos made from the blood of the Taggerung— the first an' greatest of Vulpez's serpents Nycerca slew— were somethin' she was seekin' out since she recovered from the battle. I hope you're happy with them.'_"

"She cast her siblin' an' the only family who stayed with her durin' her travels inta the damn _swamp,_ I hope she was," Finnicka growled. "I hope she was happy enough ta want ta rip the markin's off her shoulders ta make a noose around her neck an' hang herself with them." There was a tenor of ferocity and anger in Finnicka's voice Dipper hadn't ever heard before, not even in the small sparring matches the wharf rat had participated in with Slipgale and Anscom, and it made the weasel uneasy.

_That level of anger isn't somethin' you hear out of someone that young._

Dipper and Anscom exchanged glances.

"'_I am,' _Nique said," Rangar continuing with the story as if he couldn't hear Finnicka's tone shift, though his neck fur was bristling slightly, "but it was soundin' a little hollow. She might've had the mind of a traitor an' a weaklin', but she still felt somethin' for her sister, an' the allure of bein' alone an' powerful was fadin' fast. That night, after all the celebratin' was over, Nique snuck out of the tribe camp an' made a run back for the swamp well she'd dumped Nycerca in, intendin' ta free her."

Rangar kicked a fallen branch out of the way, almost chipping the back of Slipgale's ankle. He gave Finnicka a grim smile.

"It was just too bad for her that Nycerca had been freein' herself."

Slipgale was quietly mouthing the words to the story up ahead. Even Anscom was paying attention now, though it was out of curiosity for Finnicka's reactions rather than anything else. This was a story that all the Juska knew by heart besides the one about the founding of the tribes. Dipper was suddenly hearing his mother's voice in his head along with the faint gruff chime of his father's tone here and there as they told him the same tale Rangar was reciting now.

"Nycerca may have taken a stone ta the back of the head an' been dropped in a well, but she wasn't a legend for nothin'. She managed ta cling ta the rocky inside of the well ta keep from drownin', an' when she had some of her strength back, the warrior started ta climb out. It was a deep an' dark hole, an' it took seven days for Nycerca ta climb ta the top, but she managed it. An' by the time she got out an' had realized what had happened, she was more scumsuckin' enraged than anythin' else in the world.

When Nique got there, Nycerca was busy fightin' off a giant eel that had crawled out of the well behind her, a beast angry that it was cheated of its meal. Overjoyed ta see her sister not drowned, Nique threw herself inta the battle alongside her, an' together, they ripped the eel apart. After the battle was over, Nique turned ta Nycerca, her arms spread wide ta embrace her sister. She was so happy ta see her alive that she'd forgotten she bore the tattoos Nycerca had been wantin' for all her life, an' that she'd just tried ta kill an' betray her."

Dipper's paw strayed up to fix the strap of the rations bag on his shoulder… and to touch the sunray tattoo there. Nique wasn't the only one inked in blood.

"_Cheers for Dipper, the warrior who brought that bastard traitor Sunstreak down!"_

_A wave of roaring and screaming cheers from the assembled tribe followed._

"Maybe Nique expected forgiveness," Rangar said. "Nycerca had given her pardon for everythin' else she'd done, after all. But not this time."

"An' thus comes the river of blood," Anscom muttered as Finnicka looked up at Rangar with a fierce, vindictive and pained triumph in her eyes.

"Nycerca ripped 'un of the fangs from the mighty eel's mouth an' slit her sister's throat. Afterwards, she cut off 'er head, an' left her bleedin' body ta lie near the well.

'_You wanted my gift? Well, __**fine,**__'_ Nycerca said, sharpenin' the eel's fang. _'You may have gotten it, but you're not __**keepin'**__ it.'_

Nycerca stripped off every last markin' inked in the Taggerung's blood from Nique's pelt, an' she put them on herself. Afterwards, she carved Nique's body inta pieces, built a pyre in a dry part of the swamp, an' burnt Nique's remains, her head not included. She threw that ta the fish. At the end of two days, nothin' was left but ashes."

Finnicka was silent instead of giving an injection of approval where Dipper thought she would. Rangar momentarily broke out of storyteller mode to give her an unsure look, but the stoat hesitated for only a few seconds before he dropped back into his smooth tone to finish the story. Dipper could now hear running water up ahead in the sparser trees.

"Nycerca was left ta sit alone in the swamp with her markin's, stewin' on the fact that she'd been betrayed by her sister 'un last unforgivable time, an' that she was now alone," Rangar said softly. "As much as she was enraged by what had happened— like I said before— the cubs of gods an' spirits en't got much ta cling ta. No 'un else lives as long as them, an' well, Nique an' Nycerca had been travelin' together for hundreds of seasons. So besides bein' angry, Nycerca fiercely grieved."

Finnicka's fist was clenched harder around her bag's strap than it needed to be.

"She never got the time ta properly scatter her sister's ashes. When evenin' started settin' on the second day, Nycerca was shocked ta see the pyre movin', an' the logs in the pile were moved aside. Out of the ashes rose Nique— coughin' up flakes of burnt wood an' now possessin' eyes as grey as the ash themselves, a bit of waterweed hangin' from her mouth— but alive once more, an' still barin' their tribe's markin's," Rangar said. He looked towards a surprised Finnicka, though he was still telling the story, and Dipper knew his next words were meant for her. "You remember the gift of immortality their father gave her? Well, she hadn't gotten that stripped away, even if Nycerca took back her Taggerung tattoos with a blade."

Dipper was certain that there was a river up ahead of them, now— and a furious one. Anscom was grimacing before he could hide it. He received a sympathetic nod from Slipgale that soured his face. Yes, there was a river ahead. Rangar and Finnicka weren't paying attention.

"Nycerca was _furious,_" Rangar said, leaning forward and pinning back his ears for emphasis. "All of her grief went up in hate. After all she had done, her sister was gifted with everlastin' life an' reincarnation? How scumsuckin' _dare_ she show her face again! Nycerca made ta kill her sister, but Nique had learnt her lesson the first time. She managed ta fight her tired siblin' off with the second fang of the eel, an' she fled, leavin' the swamp behind. So it was that Nycerca vowed ta hunt Nique down over the ends of the earth an' ta never let her rest, lest she forget her mistake of tanglin' with a great warrior who refused ta die— despite not bein' immortal. An' that is how the first Taggerung was born, an' why the Taggerung's head has ta be taken from the fallen for proof of the victor."

Slipgale pushed past a leaning sapling and the ivy vines that hung down from its bent limbs, and when Dipper passed beneath the curtain of green coils, he was greeted by a massive stretch of roaring water. He stopped alongside Rangar and Finnicka to stare at it as Anscom came out from beneath the sapling.

There was a shallow, spindly river that the Juska crossed up north on their way to seek out the lost tribe Atiya had spoken of. Dipper, Rangar, Slipgale, and Anscom crossed a week ago there without a problem, merely some wading.

They hadn't counted on seeing what it looked like on the southern shores— or that the river deepened and widened. There was a way miners shipped their stone goods over water, after all.

The storm's swelling rain of the past few days and the widening of the river had created a monster. A vast stretch of deep, raging water the color of sediment and the inside of a deadbeast's blackened innards rumbled through the stretch of the forest, carrying limbs, leaves, dirt, and stray pieces of firewood from homes that were flooded out. Instead of there being smooth untouched stretches of mud or gravel for shores, the river seemed to be a moving black hole sitting right on top of grass; it had flooded over its confines and regular shores days ago.

_There is no way to swim that,_ Dipper thought, taking a few steps forward. If the river were calm, then the Juska could have swam that distance with some effort, but in this present state… well, drownin' and ending up as bloated, reekin' fish food was the last thing Dipper wanted.

"There may be a thinner place to cross upstream," Slipgale suggested. "It was hillier up there when we were movin' down; the banks are likely ta be higher an' more close set."

"Sounds like a plan," Dipper said, already walking upstream. He left Anscom behind to join Slipgale as the fox slipped his way into Rangar and the Taggerung's conversation, trying to convince her to learn some espionage or hear more important information than folklore.

At the thought of the latter and hearing Rangar's voice, Dipper perked up for a moment. He glanced at Slipgale. _I wonder if she or Brielle was the one who told Rangar that story instead of Zenrisk 'o someone else in the Rath tribe, seeing…_

Anscom beat Dipper to the question.

"So, Rangar, why did you change Niquen an' Nycercen ta females?"

Finnicka blinked in surprise. She gave Rangar an odd look.

"There's no rule against that, is there?" Rangar shot back. "I was the storyteller. It was my story. An' it's not like they haven't been called that afore; the Juskaheg and Juskareja always tell the tale with them as females."

"The Juskarath an' the majority of other tribes do not," Anscom said, voice arid.

"The Juskarath an' the majority of other tribes weren't alive ta see whether 'o not the gods were female 'o male, an' they haven't had a Taggerung of either gender for hundreds of seasons."

Dipper hid a grin at the retort. He didn't look back to see the expression on Anscom's face, though he sure as Hellgates was tempted to. When he glanced next to him, he saw Slipgale looking determinedly off into the forest or scanning the river for an upcoming crossing point, but there was a bit of strut to her step.

"You've been talkin' ta him," Dipper muttered, coming closer so only Slipgale could hear him. The ferret arched an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know what you're implyin'," she said innocently.

"Goddamn liar."

Slipgale shot him a sneaky grin that showed the edges of her teeth. She lightly elbowed Dipper in the shoulder before picking up her stride and taking the lead again.

After some more trekking and stepping over fallen branches, as well as slipping on wet grass, the Juska found a place to cross.

The river was still wide, and the water racing through it was no calmer, but there was a way to get across. A huge, ancient tree made of pulpy bark and held together by rot and moss spanned almost the whole river, creating a hollowed out and partially-bobbing bridge. Its base— where the stubs of roots were, on the Juska's side— didn't quite reach the shore. It was barely submerged, but resting where Dipper assumed the usual bank of the river was. Only a short hop would get a beast on it. Judging by the tree bridge's age, and its bark surface worn smooth by feet and weather, it had been lying here long, long before the storm.

The whole section of the river was loomed over by ancient, soggy trees whose branches held on more out of spite and old habit than actual strength. Only a jagged line of grey sky showed above. _This whole place reeks of trees breaking and someone getting hurt,_ Dipper thought.

"…well, we've found our bridge," Finnicka said, eying the log. "Any'un willin' ta go first? I could; I'm good at balancin' on things."

"No," Rangar said immediately. "Some'un else is goin' ta test it before you." He looked over at Anscom, Dipper, and Slipgale, awaiting their opinions. "So are we goin' ta cross here, 'o keep goin' upstream? There's a chance there may not be another bridge."

The Juska paused, milling over their choices. Dipper could already see Anscom quietly squirming in discomfort before the fox managed to stifle it. Slipgale and Rangar were looking over the log, and Dipper wondered how that rotted wood would feel beneath his feet.

Slipgale spoke up before Rangar could.

"I'll go first," she said. "I'm lighter than Dipper, but he an' I are the only 'uns here who have more experience with swimmin' in currents. If the log feels like it's goin' ta hold up, I'll call you all over; Rangar an' Finnicka, you two stick together, because you'll be next if it does."

Slipgale ignored the mild look of irritation on Rangar's face. Dipper couldn't read Finnicka's expression. But Slipgale was right: she was lighter than him, and she and Dipper were the only warriors who had spent a substantial amount of time struggling in water, mostly due to the fact that otters seemed to hate them.

Sarck was a decent swimmer— for a ferret— but he wasn't here. Rangar could swim, and he was barely lighter than Slipgale, and faster, something he was aware of. But he happened to be the chieftain's son. And it was against goddamn common sense to send the chieftain's son out _first _on an unstable log over a roaring river, even if he could handle himself. The same went for the Taggerung.

_As for Anscom…_ Dipper frowned, glancing at the fox. Anscom was watching all the proceedings with his mouth pressed into a thin line, and lingering back from the riverbank. Dipper didn't get time to ask him what his problem was as Slipgale prepared to walk out on the log. As the ferret warrior moved the makeshift bridge, Dipper followed her, standing as close as he could get short of climbing on the log with her. He was tensed, prepared to catch or grab her if need be. _We've got the Taggerung. I'm not letting a worthless and Hellgates-bound river take someone now._

Slipgale hopped up on the log. She paused, feeling the wood sink beneath her feet, and Dipper awaited her movements with baited breath. The ferret took several steps out. The green ink chains along her back swayed with her movements.

After testing the log, Slipgale kept going. Her steps were edgy at first, and Dipper could see her fur bristling and ears flirting with pinning back as water sprayed at her ankles, but her strides gained length and speed with every passing moment. The wood groaned faintly beneath her steps. Dipper didn't know if the log's shaking was due to the current chucking rubble at it or something else.

Finally, Slipgale was on the other side, and Rangar gave a small hoot of triumph as she walked down one stubby, broken branch and gracefully descended to the bank. The ferret turned and waved at them.

"Come on over!" she yelled. "But 'un at a time, an' don't mess around; I don't know how long it'll hold!"

Rangar almost stepped forward, but after a glance at Finnicka, he gestured for her to go instead. The wharf rat passed by Dipper and easily jumped up on the log. Dipper gave her a critical look when she almost slipped on her first step— _damnit, really?_— but when she straightened herself up, Finnicka moved across with swift proficiency and ease. Her long tail trailed after her in a burnt line, and the log bounced beneath her steps.

The Taggerung joined Slipgale a minute later, jumping off onto the bank and spinning to look at the crowd still across the river.

"Come on!" she called.

Rangar didn't hesitate. He brushed past Dipper, easily bounding onto the log, and the stoat trotted across the makeshift bridge. Rangar hesitated as he crossed the middle— his arms abruptly freezing in an outstretched pose to keep balance— as he glanced at the river below him. For a moment, Dipper tensed, imagining the sound of wood splintering, but Rangar continued after another few seconds. Zenrisk's son soon joined the Taggerung and Slipgale across the river.

Dipper waited a moment. When Anscom remained back and gestured Dipper forth with a sour flick of his paw, the fox showing no intention of going next, Dipper leapt up on the log. Swollen, ancient bark sank faintly beneath his feet. The worn surface threatened to slip him up as Dipper walked along. It was muckin' disgusting… and unstable.

The heavier and taller weasel hurried across, mentally cursing the triperaking bridge as he went. By the time he reached the other side of the fallen tree, the current had swept new debris into the side of the submerged trunk, making it shiver with each floating limb that thudded against it. Dipper jumped off the log and landed on the bank with a solid _thud._

"C'mon, Anscom, it's just you!" Rangar yelled, cupping one paw around his mouth. From the opposite shore, Anscom gave him a piercing look that possessed more venom than an adder's fangs.

"I am _aware,_" he snapped. The fox warily eyed the brown water roaring beneath log. He cast it a look just as hateful as the one given to Rangar… though Dipper noticed some nervousness in his flicking eyes.

The edge of Anscom's tongue poked out the side of his mouth to lick his lips as he approached the log. The action was over in a flash as the fox narrowed his eyes and jumped. He landed on the wood with the soft thump of a beast who could run over snow. Anscom halted with his fur on end as the log bucked and groaned beneath him, the river throwing another snapped limb against it.

"On with it, fox!" Dipper shouted, an irritated growl tinting his words when Anscom didn't move after five more seconds. His voice seemed to jolt Anscom out of his reverie, and the fox began walking forward again, his eyes fixated on the water and log beneath him. The current churned itself into a rush of sparking whitecaps and a brown wall that raced beneath and against the fallen tree.

But Fate, apparently, decided that enough was enough.

Anscom was almost halfway across when the log gave a giant groan and bowed inwards like the caving back of a beast of burden. There was a faint crack as wooden splinters jutted up from beneath its belly in the middle.

For a moment, Anscom was frozen, staring at the water beneath him, and Dipper and the other Juska watched in disbelief.

Then the log was heaving beneath Anscom, wiggling and trying to fight off its bank restraints, and the fox was struggling to keep his balance as the old bridge wobbled dangerously in its place and threatened to roll with him.

"Anscom, run!" Rangar yelled, cupping his paws around his mouth. Finnicka hovered around the edge of the log with same air of a desperate moth around a flame. Dipper saw her eyes growing distant and glazing over.

Anscom took off, taking bounding strides, but he only made it several feet further before the log gave a violent shake. The fox cursed before hitting his knees, sinking his claws into the log to keep from getting thrown off. Anscom's eyes were terrifyingly wide as he felt water spray against his legs and tail and stared at the raging current only mere feet from his face.

There was another faint crack. The wood splinters from the fissure right behind Anscom popped up further. Water began to skip over the side of the log there, forming its own miniature rapid.

"Damn you, Anscom, move!" Dipper said. The fox said nothing in reply, still staring at the passing currents, and Dipper swore his fingers sank into the wood harder when the fox saw some of the storm trash beneath him get jerked away by the current. "IF YOU DON'T GET OFF THE MUCKIN' LOG, YOU'RE GOIN' TA BE NEXT!"

"He's stuck," Slipgale said, watching the erratic shakes of the slippery log. Anscom squirmed forward to get away from the crack behind him, but another shake of the wood had him clinging on for his life after a mere foot away. Dipper couldn't keep intertwined irritation and fear from welling up in his chest. _He could still be crawling; damnit, Anscom, why won't you move?_

Rangar was pacing back and forth. "We have ta go get him; we have ta do somethin' before that whole thing snaps in half. What do we have ta use? We kin't reach him with a branch from here—"

"We could if we were closer," Slipgale said. Dipper caught her eye. The ferret gave the tiniest tilt of her head, and he knew what she was thinking.

Finnicka stood back and watched in horrified fascination as the Juska went into action. Rangar grabbed the longest nearby branch as Dipper approached the log, grimly flexing his fingers and claws to test their grip. Slipgale was right behind him as Rangar passed the limb to Dipper, and the weasel grabbed it and tossed his dagger to Slipgale before wading out the step to the log. He clambered up on its shaking surface before getting into a crouch to move over it, and Slipgale followed suit, her arms tensed.

"Rangar, Finnicka; hold on to me," she ordered, not pulling her eyes from Dipper's creeping process forward towards the trapped Anscom. Rangar immediately moved up behind Slipgale to take hold of her leg once Dipper got out far enough, allowing her to reached him if she needed to. Finnicka blinked the glazed look out of her eyes and joined Rangar.

Meanwhile, Dipper could barely hear her. The water sounded like Hellgates draining past him with it so close to his face. On his belly, he was at the same level as Anscom, and the weasel pulled himself forward towards the fox with gritted teeth as he carried the tree branch balanced across his back. Anscom wasn't looking at him as Dipper got out far enough, pulling the branch off his back and jabbing it forward towards the other warrior's reach. The fox blinked as the branch shoved at his face.

"Anscom! Wake up, you sonuvawhore!"

The log gave another discordant groan. Dipper could feel its rotten strands of innards snapping beneath him. Anscom just clenched onto the wood harder, and Dipper tried not to waver in his grip; the extended limb was still a solid reach away from the fox. But he wasn't crawling forwards.

_What the Hellgates?_

Anscom's sharp eyes snapped up to look at him. The fox's face was flecked with water, and it was matting down the fur in sudden waves on his legs and arms, making Anscom's size and strength seem to melt away from him.

"I'd be easier if I— Dipper, incomin'!" Anscom barked, bracing himself.

Dipper turned his head in time to see a huge limb broken off from one of the leaning trees come careening down the river. It smashed into the side of the log just as the weasel grabbed tight, leaves flew in both the Juska's faces, and then the limb was sucked under the log, dragged along with the rest of the current out of sight.

For a moment, Dipper felt his heartbeat thudding up against the bark, and then the log gave a moan and rolled. His fingers came loose from the wood they were gripped around.

"DIPPER! ANSCOM!" Rangar called. Slipgale scrambled up the side of the log as it rotated into the current, but the fox and weasel weren't so lucky.

Dipper had managed to swing his back legs around to the other side, but he was clinging to the tilted log, and his rescue branch was gone, ripped from him by the river. His side and one of his shoulders were almost in the water. The current's cold grasp tickled his fur and flirted with his ribs. Anscom was just as tilted as he was, but even lower down, and the crack behind him was beginning to shake faintly.

"Anscom, come on!" Dipper yelled. He pried one arm free from the log, reaching out for the fox. Brown water from the crests of waves pelted both of them, and Anscom stared at his paw as if were hundreds of leagues away. The tree gave another crack. The Juska on the bank were yelling something. Dipper shut out all extra noise but the roar in his head.

"I kin't reach from here," Anscom growled, the sound made garbled by the river. His fur was plastered to his body.

"YOU BLOODY FRAGGER, THAT'S WHY YOU HAVE TA MOVE!" Dipper howled. He could feel the log starting to buckle beneath them, and the crack behind Anscom was threatening to grow larger—

Dipper crawled out further on the log, still clinging to the side of it and trying to haul himself back on top instead of on the side.

"Anscom, muckin' listen ta me: jump for it. Just grab my arm, I'll haul you up."

"I'll get sucked beneath the log. Dipper, you won't be able ta haul me up in this water once I'm in it. I can't—"

"Anscom, it doesn't matter. If you don't get off this damn thing now, you're goin' ta have ta jump off an' swim for the downriver bank anyway, 'o else it's goin' ta crush both of us when it breaks—"

"Dipper," Anscom said, looking up at the weasel's face. Dipper saw the fox's eyes were unnaturally wide, and all the usual cleverness was gone, replaced with something else entirely— fear. "_I can't swim._"

Dipper stared.

"WATCH OUT!" Finnicka said.

The Juska turned their heads in time to see another limb come barreling down the current just as the log rolled another increment again. It crashed into Anscom, the fox screaming as his crippled left shoulder dislocated with a pop.

"_ANSCOM!_" Dipper roared.

The entire log cracked as it snapped in half and folded, crashing into the current and going under out of sight with Anscom's red fur.

One moment Dipper was above water, and the next he was beneath it, his breath ripped out of his mouth, bubbles of air bursting out of his nose, and his shocked body spinning in the cold it was dunked in. Wood slammed into his face before it smacked against his arms and left traces of pain, and he could see nothing but dark brown and hear the roar of the river as the cold water shot up his nose—

An iron grip latched around his ankles, and Dipper's equilibrium was yanked out from under him again as his face rushed down to meet where the ground would be. The weasel felt his legs emerge from the cold, and the next second, Slipgale was letting go of him on the river bank so he could sit up, curse, and cough up water.

"Check the banks, Anscom could've gotten stuck," Rangar said, the stoat frantically trying to look downstream from where the log bridge had sunk into oblivion. There was nothing left of it now— and no sign of it or Anscom ever being there. "The current took him; if he en't here, he could be down there."

Dipper wheezed up more water before snarling a few curses and wiping his mouth with the back of his paw, getting to his feet. Slipgale assessed him but didn't move to give him steadying he didn't need. Finnicka stuck close to Rangar, scanning the riverbanks, and the two younger Juska were barely keeping themselves in check from running down alongside the river, Finnicka in particular.

"Are you alright, Dipper?" Slipgale said.

Dipper spat out the fragment from something in his mouth, and he tasted a faint touch of coppery blood brushing the roof of his mouth. There were still a few drops of water leaking from his nose, or could've been blood; he wasn't muckin' sure.

"Fine," he grunted. "We need ta get downstream before the river widens again; if Anscom an' part of the tree are caught somewhere along the banks before there, they're not goin' ta be for long."

Rangar took his words as a confirmation to start trotting down the river. After a look at Dipper, he did. Dipper felt Finnicka's eyes lingering on him for a moment before she turned and followed him.

Slipgale said nothing, but she tossed Dipper his dagger, and he snatched it out of the air before sheathing it. Both weasel and ferret followed Rangar and Finnicka down the river. They did not mention the unspoken tendrils of Atiya's past words hanging over them as they all bolted in search for Anscom.

"_Fate does not tell of all deaths. Four of you shall leave; make sure five return."_

Dipper ran faster to catch up with Rangar and Finnicka and the river that was outrunning them all.

* * *

A.N: A long chapter, but one I hope that worked nevertheless. The updating time before this is going to mirror my upcoming infrequent update schedule as a whole. As this and the short chapter after it go up, I'll be starting my hiatus. (As a side note, the fox 'Nikon' has been renamed 'Nekon.')

Questions for Cub Dipper and Cub Farflit are open.

**1.** **What were your parents' names and when did you 'leave' home to join Mavern?**

Farflit: "I think my mom's name starts with an 'F'…? I don't know, an' I don't care. They didn't want me so I don't want them. Mavern _is_ my home."

**2. What do you like most about training?**

Farflit: "That I get to learn more stuff, 'o hear extra things from Aunt Tilda and Nushka after I tell them what I learned durin' class. Also, gettin' smarter an' stronger than every'un else an' bein' able to tell them how stupid they are when they call me fat."

**3. In your Juska training, do males and females train alongside each other, or do they train separately? If you so, how did you like getting beat up by a girl? HA!**

Dipper: "Nah, we all train together right now. They separate us for a bit when we get older, but I dunno why— maybe it's 'cause the older beasts try ta eat each other's faces instead of when they should be punchin' each other? Anyways, it's kinda dumb. An' I don't let a _girl_ beat me up, you mucker! If a girl tries beatin' me up, she's gonna get her face an' damn cooties in the dirt, so there!"

**4. What were your parents like?**

Dipper: "What do you mean, what _were_ they like? My mom an' dad en't dead 'o somethin'. They're just… mom an' dad. Mom is kinda thin, even if she's strong an' fast, an' the cream colored fur that's supposed ta go down your jaw an' neck goes all the way down her chest an' inta her skirt. Dad an' I don't have that; ours just ends right below our arms.

Mom likes drinkin' a lot, but she always tells me not ta let dad know where her bottles are, 'cause he's a goddamn _lightweight._ An' dad always gets all insulted an' huffy when she says that, an' she ends up either punchin' him in the shoulder 'o rollin' her eyes ta make him shut up. 'O she leans on him an' mutters some things ta him that I kin't hear, an' then they start givin' each other those weird gooshy looks, which is… pretty scumsuckin' gross. Urgh.

Anyways, dad. Dad has a lot more tribe markin's than mom, an' he's thicker an' stronger. His shoulders are a lot muckin' broader, too. He's got a big scar down his leg from when some other warrior tried ta kill him, an' he always tells me stories about how _that stinkin' sonuvawhore just got out of the Fatesforsaken way before I could stick a spear through his ribs an' send him ta tripelickin' Hellgates, DAMNIT!_ An' then mom tells us ta shut up. An' we don't. Dad has this really deep an' rumbly voice, too.

So, there's my parents."


	23. Chapter 20

If anyone missed the previous chapter, it replaced the hiatus author's note. Serious spoilers abound if you read this one before the previous one. Just a head's up!

* * *

_"Young warrior, as of today, you become part of the Juskarath, and you take a step forward ta becomin' a male. The name 'Unrath' no longer belongs to you."_

_Pain arched through the fox's shoulders as the shaman cleaned away the blood over the markings and pushed a needle beneath his skin. Ink and blood became one as the shaman kept up the tribal chant through every piece of the missing tattoo links he added. _

_The fox could only recognize a few words that his older sister had taught him— that was the word for destiny Crimin had just muttered, wasn't it? But then the needle was sinking into him again, and it didn't matter— and he clung on to what he understood while his body lit on fire._

_The pawful of words he knew gave him strength not to cry out or flinch. They always did. Were they not daggers of their own, much like the now-blessed blade he had slew the mouse warrior with? Pain stabbed him in the hip as the shaman moved down to take care of another tattoo, and the fox clung to the guttural sound of the word 'lineage' being uttered. He held to every part of the chant like the prayer it was._

_Finally, it was over. The bloodied cloth and needle were set aside. The fox grimly pushed down the pain without gritting his teeth. He was proud of that._

_"Rise. May your cleverness and your markin's let you ensnare triumph, and let you not hang by a noose woven by your own tongue… Anscom Juskarath."_

_Anscom rose._

* * *

The first thing he awoke to was the sensation of pebbles and mud pressed into his face, ruffled dampened fur, and his legs still hanging in cold water.

The second thing he awoke to was the burning pain of hundreds of needles in his shoulder.

Anscom forced his good arm beneath him to shove his face out of the mud. As he tried to take a breath, a fist seized his chest and water bubbled up in his throat. The fox gave in to violent coughing and choking as he vomited up water. It splattered over the muddy shore in front of him, but Anscom couldn't make himself stop, and he was drowning again.

Finally, he stopped retching. Anscom spluttered and coughed a few more times before he collapsed again. He weakly managed to shove his good arm out in front of him, scattering a few pebbles as he did, and dragged himself forward.

His crippled other shoulder screamed in protest. It was almost enough to make Anscom retch again. He barely managed to stop himself as he gave a ragged gasp. The fox clenched his teeth, closing his eyes as he forced out his good arm again, his knees creaking as they moved and his legs awkwardly milling in the water as they searched for a foothold.

_Don't think of it,_ Anscom told himself, still gritting his teeth and focusing on the sensation of hard enamel pressing together, _don't think of it. Find another focus. Find another word._ His mind fumbled for something, sluggishly trying to revive itself.

_Resilience, _it finally brought up. He sank into Juskan tongue again. _Akairdna._

Anscom slowly pushed himself up and got his legs out of the water as they found a purchase on the pebbly and slimy river bottom. He concentrated on the way resilience sounded in Juska: how the _a_ began the word solidly, transferring to the click of _k_ that was as precise as a sharp blade being unsheathed, whichled on the hard and throat rasping _aird_ before trailing off to the softer but definite tail— _na._

The word was as strong as it what it promised and embodied, and in the right voice, it could made flexible, but yet still hold a bite… and bend, not break. _It is not a dry piece of firewood or a thin lower arm bone that can be snapped in half over a knee,_ Anscom thought. He continued to struggle away from the river. _It's a green limb carved into a set snare or a flexible spine._

Anscom picked through everything that _resilience _and _akairdna _were before they lost the luster to dull his pain, and then he automatically went onto another word after those exhausted their purpose. _Dyalon,_ he thought. _Drown._ A word that wrapped everything in lightless cold cobwebs and tangling waterweeds and sounded suspiciously like _die alone _in common tongue.

Merely thinking the word made Anscom almost taste bile and the cold reach of water creeping down his throat and nose as Dipper and the surface disappeared from his sight. Anscom stumbled up on his knees, feeling his wet, sore, and cold legs curl up under him. Was the daylight darker now than it was during the river crossing? There were no slumping trees here or smooth mud banks. _Where am I?_

While Anscom's head was still abuzz, and all his limbs but his dislocated arm felt like those from a torpid corpse that was rotting in water, he didn't notice the soft rustle of movement in the woods nearby him until it was too late.

Anscom's ears perked, and he looked up to find two sharp blades against his throat.

The Juska froze. He stared at the short and stocky grey fox coolly holding dual swords to his neck. There were two ragged scars running down the side of his mouth, which was set in a grim, flat line. He wore blue uniform pants. Behind him, a heavily tattooed rat was slipping out of the bushes, his own paw on the hilt of a stained and curved cutlass.

The grey fox drew his blades closer together and pressed the edges against the sides of Anscom's throat.

"Paws up, Juska," he said. "Where I can see them."

Anscom slowly raised his arms.

Or rather, he tried to.


	24. Chapter 21

"_I got it AH, damnit!"_

_The fox almost dropped the saber he wielded in his left paw. The vixen sitting on the stone bench next to him grinned at his expression. He tried to make a neat slash in the air, only for it to turn out a clumsy mill. _

"_This is complete sloshin' tripe," he said, ears flicking back, and the vixen on the seat started to laugh as he glared at the saber. Her own sheath was empty, but she held another almost identical saber, though the guard was curved and shaped to be held specifically in the right paw. "I fikin' swear, Summer, it is—"_

"_Stop being such a kit, Ore," Summer said. She snickered again when he continued to stare at the saber in paw with the hope of melting it. "It's only a sword."_

"_You weren't sayin' that earlier when you were tryin' to wield my saber, were you?" Ore shot back. He rolled up the blue uniform sleeve on his left arm from where it had unraveled doing his mock slashes, revealing the flecks of lighter fur along his wrist, and Summer was still smirking in amusement as he tried to get in position again. She had small light flecks of fur scattered across her right arm beneath her neater rolled up sleeves. _

_Ore started out another diagonal slash well, only for it to veer off and flop in the finishing half of the movement. He cursed. In the background, the stable hum of Mavern continued in the constant trickle of uniformed foxes moving through the training grounds, punctuated by the sounds of clashing metal, instructions being barked in the distance, and training dummies being slashed and punched into submission._

"_Alright, that's it; I'm done," Ore said, standing straight with his arm down. He let the tip of the saber barely brush along the ground in his pose. Nearby, Farflit had taken the field from the fox there previously, and was arranging his own packed-straw dummy on the stand. Summer sat with her elbows on her knees, watching her brother fume. "It should not be this bloody hard to wield a sword in your opposite paw. It shouldn't."_

"_Wouldn't y'know, it takes time and practice."_

"_I'm callin' sonority; shut up."_

"_Yeah, sonority by like three seconds."_

"_It's still sonority," Ore said, looking dignified for a moment before he remembered he was angry at the saber. Farflit had set his dummy up on the block, and he was backing away. Summer casually tossed Ore's saber back to him, and he kept talking as he caught it and returned her left-pawed blade to her._

"—_but really," Ore said, sheathing his blade as Summer followed suit, "that's ridiculous. Who learns to wield a sword in their other paw anyway? One's hard enough; I don't know who wants to be ambidextr—"_

_Farflit unsheathed his dual swords and neatly decapitated the practice dummy before slicing it in half. There was a small thud as its head and its split torso hit the ground. _

_Ore and Summer silenced. They both stared at Farflit, who still had his swords out in a perfect low guard, letting the hilts rest right above his knees and the blades curve upwards. He wasn't even looking at them. Ore and Summer narrowed their eyes._

_It took them three seconds to drop their sabers and dog-pile on top of Farflit._

"_OI!" Farflit barked, trying to stand and throw Ore off him as his swords clattered to the ground, but the younger fox had his arms locked around Farflit's neck from behind and his heels firmly dug into his waist. Farflit ended up staggering over from the weight of Summer hanging off his side, the vixen scrambling to get higher up and lock her arms beneath Farflit's armpits and over his shoulders. Farflit was a growling, staggering ball of limbs and dangling tails, and his height aided him in nothing. He struggled to pry Ore and Summer off him._

"_You little fraggers!"_

_Ore started laughing. Summer— in her scramble to attach herself to Farflit tighter— ended up jerking on one of his ears. The short fox's eyes momentarily bugged out with pain._

_Farflit immediately set about trying to get Summer in a chokehold. The fact that Ore had him in a clingy version of one didn't help his efforts. Farflit was growling and trying not to fall on his knees when he heard more laughter from the sides. He managed to turn and give an almost pleading glare to the taller fox watching them, and the stocky, sleepy-eyed vixen who had joined him._

"_Agrim, Kyrin; help me peel this stunted pair off."_

_The taller fox had a straight, solemn face, but as he watched Farflit struggle beneath Ore and Summer's weight, a slow grin spread across his face, crinkling the long scar over his left eye._

"_I don't know, Farflit. This is the training ground, after all, and everyone in my squad has to be fit. I think Ore and Summer have the right idea, practicing grappling."_

"_I agree with Agrim," Kyrin said. Farflit swore he could see laughter in her hooded eyes. "You came here to train. It would be beneficial to take advantage of yer situation."_

_It was the little pause right before 'beneficial' and the smirk tugging at the edge of his squad's leader's mouth that set Farflit over the edge. He gave Agrim and Kyrin one venomous look capable of melting armor as Ore dug a heel into his side._

"…_I hate you," he said. "I hate you, Agrim an' Kyrin; you understand me? I hate __**all**__ of you," he said, louder, as Agrim began to laugh, burying his face in his paw. Kyrin was laughing now too, low and melodious. Farflit tried to flip Ore off his back, but Summer's grip on him kept him from doing so, and the twins' laughter scuttled down his ears. "I'm not goin' to help any of you when you need it— I __**will**__ choke you out if your heel goes there again, Ore," Farflit growled, and Ore hastily shuffled his feet up from where they had slipped from Farflit's waist and gone downwards during his laughing._

"_Don't be sore, Farflit," Summer said, grinning, her nose almost grinding into his cheek._

"_I wasn't sore about failin' to wield a sword," Farflit retorted. "It's good I wasn't either; twin blades are the only kind of twins I've found useful to have around."_

_Ore laughed quietly into the back of his neck. Farflit gave him a dirty look the best he could in their current position. The rest of their squad took it as a prompt to start snickering anew, and if Farflit wasn't the one being crushed by a ball of Summer and Ore and trying to peel them off, he would've laughed, too._

* * *

Farflit and Laikan were sent out to scout around the quarry's fringes and check on the level of the river, since the storm up north was bound to make it rise. They were sent to do nothing more. When Farflit had strode out of the quarry's reaches— leaving the brewing rescue missions behind— he was glad that it was just him, Laikan, and his swords for once. Janno had taken refuge with Mellia for the moment, tired of worrying for his father, and Farflit didn't have to deal with either hedgehog or rat looking at him in ways that made part of his heart lurch in ways it should _not._

The fox was almost optimistic, or as much as one could be while their home threatened to gnaw them to death. Almost.

Then Laikan spotted a lump of fur lying washed up on the banks, and now Farflit was holding two blades to a sodden Juska's throat, all of his barely present good humor having been violently stabbed to death just a few moments prior.

_If it moves or doesn't listen,_ Farflit thought, watching the red fox before him stare at the swords scraping its throat, _then it will be next._

"Paws up, Juska," he said. "Where I can see them."

The Juska slowly tried to raise his arms. He got one up, but the other gave a small jerk and hug uselessly by his side, and Farflit saw the other fox gritting his teeth as a faint shake went down his scruff. Farflit pressed another increment of the blades into his throat.

"Some'un's got tossed about like friggin' flotsam," Laikan said, glancing at the Juska and the way his arm lay unmoving. Farflit prodded the underside of the fox's jaw with his sword tip.

"Get up," he said.

The Juska stared at them with disdain. Farflit stared back. The bold tattoos that wrapped around the tribal beast's face stuck out in a hideous brilliance.

"You have legs; you don't need arms to walk, _get up,_" Farflit said, when the Juska didn't move. Laikan watched as the Juska gave them both a swift, hateful look and stumbled to his feet, paw still raised. He stiffened but said nothing as his bad arm swung like a flesh pendulum.

"He's not goin' anywhere with that arm," Laikan muttered to Farflit, noticing the stifle. The Juska fox's ears perked up, but Farflit kept a straight face, not betraying a hint of Laikan speaking to him.

"Name?" Farflit said.

The Juska spat from the side of his mouth. Farflit was surprised he wasn't vomiting water and weeds.

"Kyrclaw."

"If that name changes 'o ye make a wrong move, you're more fragged than a sailor's wench," Laikan said. "An' you'll be gettin' somethin' stuck up that skirt of yours the same way, but it en't goin' ta end pleasantly." Laikan slowly lifted his cutlass towards Kyrclaw's belly up from his leg, edge up. The vermin's eyes flitted down to glance at the metal brushing against his stomach before his gaze went back to Farflit's blades and the glare being leveled at his face. "S'that understood?"

"Yes," the fox said begrudgingly. Laikan turned back to Farflit.

He glanced at the Juska's dangling arm. It was dislocated— whatever or whoever had cast the fox into the water had probably added that themselves. _And rightfully so,_ Farflit thought. Juska were as pleasant and needed as the Madness.

"So, are we…?" Laikan raised his eyebrows and jerked his head at the wet fox before them. Farflit was almost tempted to kick the sodden piece of trash back in the river. It was as much mercy as Juska showed their prisoners; the vermin probably needed a bath the size of a river to wash off the innocent blood he had on his paws, as well as _plenty _of water inside his lungs as well.

_But I'm not a Juska, and neither is Laikan,_ Farflit thought. He swallowed some of the hate crawling up his throat. _Hate makes beasts do unprofessional and cruelly unnecessary things_, he reminded himself. Forcefully. Besides, if the Juska was dead, he couldn't give them information about the others inevitably sneaking around. Juska never went alone; they trailed together in a chain made of crude tattoos and random violence that pleasured them. They were hordebeasts with more flashy decorum and superstition.

The last time Farflit saw some wayward Juska left something to be desired.

"Weapons on the ground," Farflit said. His flat and cold tone would have made Captain Tilda and Instructor Shortig proud. "All of them, Juska."

The beast supposedly named Kyrclaw began to lower his paw, and when Farflit didn't slit his throat, he reached down to his waist and grabbed his dagger sheath. It was empty— the weapon ripped from his possession by the river— but Kyrclaw nevertheless unfastened it from his crude belt and let it drop. Farflit saw a flash of Juskan script as it did.

The Mavern fox still didn't lower his swords.

"That's not much for _all_ of them," Farflit said.

Kyrclaw flinched as Laikan sheathed his cutlass and brushed past his dislocated arm to start patting the Juska down. Farflit kept his swords steady the whole time, glancing down occasionally as Laikan searched for another hidden sliver of medal.

"Funny thing about fightin' all your life an' bein' labeled scum," Laikan said casually, his fingers closing around a hard object hanging on the inside of the fox's belt. "After bein' cast around an' ambushed as much as a ruttin' shark with a price on your head, you pick up a whole damn bilgeload of weapons, more than ye have teeth."

With a jerk back of the belt, letting the other side bite into Kyrclaw's waist, Laikan retrieved a curved dirk. The rat lazily spun the weapon in his fingers like opening a cheap penknife.

"Well snotstones; imagine that."

Kyrclaw's mouth tightened.

Laikan went on to find another small dirk hidden on the other side of the fox's waist, and the rat went about his search none too gently, pausing to do something with the first dirk he had retrieved while he was searching the kilt's hem lining. When the search was over, and the Juska had long resigned to stare at Farflit with a flat resentment— something Farflit gladly returned— Laikan stood back up and moved next to Farflit. The ex-corsair pocketed the dirks.

"Think I'll be keepin' these… an' nice decorations inside your kilt, by the way," Laikan added. His tone was a flippant slap to the face. "Did ye spend as much time learnin' ta write gibberish with a needle an' thread as you did gettin' your tattoos?"

Farflit gave him a look, tiring of holding his swords aloft, but Kyrclaw's expression slipped to reveal a split second of fury before he stole his composure back.

"No, but I learned Juskan _gibberish _faster than you got yours," he said. The fox's eyes slipped over the colorful design sleeves and black ink lines over Laikan's arms with near distasteful scrutiny. "I value your words— regardless that you will never understand mine."

The Juska's voice was smooth and outreaching, probing every corner of his words to steal the last taste of sound from them, but harshening on hard syllables with the unfamiliarity of speaking such innate softness. Laikan frowned slightly as Kyrclaw spoke, sensing a hidden connotation he couldn't pry out. But there was no direct insult to go off of.

Farflit immediately disliked his voice as much as he wanted to cast the stinking tribebeast and his marked-up back and face into the river. There was no aggression, but there was some damn double meaning and snide abuse buried in the word delivery and the way the Juska was eying Laikan's tattoos like idiotic scribbles.

_Don't speak if you don't have the courage to give your insult outright, _he thought, _and stop judging Laikan's tattoos, you piece of scum; he got them for the same reasons you did, except he actually went through the damn pain of choosing them out and making them something worth looking at._

"An' to me, the value of yer words is nothin'," Farflit responded. "The same as yer life."

Kyrclaw's face remained composed to the untrained eye. Farflit saw the faint sour twist uncurling at the edge of his mouth and the concealed spark in his eyes; being loathed in all subtleties of the spectrum was nothing new to the grey fox. Kyrclaw dipped his head towards Farflit, minding the swords at his throat. The way he leaned on the blades Farflit was straining to keep in position during the respectful nod placed a spiteful weight on Farflit's injured shoulders. They burned. He stared down— or rather, up at— Kyrclaw the entire time. Neither of them blinked.

"An' there is somethin' I have mutual with you, curt short fox," Kyrclaw said. He leaned his muzzle on the sword again, ever so slightly, and his sly amber eyes refused to look elsewhere.

Farflit didn't miss the other meaning to his words this time. The infuriated inward bristle of hackles he felt at the crisp pronunciation of _'curt' _told him that much. Kyrclaw was remarking on more than his speech.

_You are the Juskan version of Yang with everything that makes him strong and nothing that makes him tolerable or protective,_ Farflit thought, seeing the dark Juskan marks that traced around Kyrclaw's face instead of the simple damson dye stripes beneath the eyes.

_I abhor you._

Kyrclaw pulled his head away. He understood that message.

"There's bound ta be more of this skulkin' lot around," Laikan said. He was eying the river as if he expected a boat full of Juska to come cruising up its middle.

Kyrclaw blinked.

"Perhaps."

"Shut up, Juska," Farflit said. He nudged Laikan's shoulder with his own, not looking at the rat's face. Laikan got the signal. Farflit sheathed one of his swords, tracking Kyrclaw's movements the entire time. Juska and vermin were inventive bastards when cornered; they chose their actions with all the tact and ferocity of the crazed Hobb.

"Yer comin' back with us," Farflit said. He felt Laikan lightly nudge his ankle with his foot, turning his cutlass in the process. The rat was in place. "But 'un thing first."

Farflit sheathed his other sword as Laikan held his cutlass to the tribe fox's throat. Kyrclaw's eyes widened as Farflit grabbed his paw and wrist.

"Wha—"

He gritted his teeth and held still as Farflit grabbed his scruff with his other paw and bent his dislocated arm up into flexing position. Kyrclaw screwed his eyes shut as Farflit rotated his arm before slowly and ruthlessly pushing it up above his head. The Juska gave a small scream when his arm slipped back into place with a dull _pop._

Farflit released the panting fox's arm and let it drop, then letting go of his scruff. Kyrclaw immediately clenched his shoulder, digging his fingers into the burning seams inside him and ignoring Laikan's blade at his neck.

"There's 'un thing less for the infirmary to look at," Farflit said.

Kyrclaw looked away from his arm enough to give the grey fox a sheer look of sheer, unbridled hatred. Farflit returned a cool version of it.

The only respectable Juska he had ever met was Janno's mother, and she had merely held a distant relation to them before the summer fever clipped her out of Erskine and Janno's lives. The rest of the Juska were filth as worthless as every other vermin. Filth that didn't deserve to be in the same mine as Laikan, Mellia, Wringer, Janno, Yang and everyone else.

Laikan— who could smell spite building as well as a thunderstorm on the horizon— decided to move the foxes along. The rat impatiently tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

"Alright," Laikan said. "Ye heard the fox; you're comin' with us. We have some questions ta ask ye, an' you need an infirmary check. The last thing we want is ta be bringin' more of the goddamn plague in."

"Since we're takin' him with us, it's late for that," Farflit said, resisting the urge to rest his paw on one of his sword hilts. His shoulders still stung and burned at fast movements, but it was fading back to a manageable pain the longer time passed.

Kyrclaw looked grimly intrigued now, if displeased. He glanced between Laikan and Farflit before the former pulled his cutlass away from his throat and gestured him to move forward. The chipped but lethal blade of the weapon waved the fox on.

"Get movin', you sludgedrippin' bucket of clart," he said. Laikan made sure to keep his blade hovering between Kyrclaw's shoulder blades as he walked behind the fox, prodding the now-silent Juska prisoner on. Farflit walked next to him and let his paw stay over the hidden dagger at his waist. It would be more efficient for a quick surprise than his swords.

Gittem had retrieved the dagger for him from Hobb and Zebediah's open outpost and tomb. He had passed along to Laikan, who in turn had given it to Farflit. It resulted on one of the rare times where Farflit couldn't say 'thank you' to all the beasts he wanted.

Next to him, Laikan brushed the tip of his cutlass over Kyrclaw's shoulder blade just enough to make the fox's fur bristle and his ears stick up uncomfortably straight. The rat slightly inclined his head towards Farflit after he did so, drawing back his cutlass an inch, if he were going to pull away. _Do you want me to…?_ His face said.

Farflit turned his face away and let his paw drift below his hidden dagger. _No,_ he wordlessly responded. Laikan moved his cutlass back up to linger over Kyrclaw's spine, and the two marched on without pause.

Normally, Farflit would want to be in charge of any hostile captives himself. But Laikan had plenty of experience with holding hostages and making them uneasy, and he knew what he was doing; Farflit trusted him to keep Kyrclaw from attempting something stupid. The Juska's wrists weren't bound behind him like Farflit would have preferred them to be, but he was exhausted and just recovering from a dislocated shoulder; the prisoner wasn't at his best. He would be fine unbound for now, Farflit decided.

The two miners led the exhausted, aching, and still wet Juska back to the mines at blade-point.

* * *

Not wanting to throw the mines into further disarray with a captive Juska or more problems in tow, Farflit and Laikan marched Kyrclaw over to the closest infirmary: the same squat stone building Gittem carried Farflit to after Hobb shredded his shoulders. Farflit was mostly concerned about miners spotting Kyrclaw's tattoos. Any Juska besides exiled and de-marked ones were scarce in the mine, and some western beasts were less then favorable when regarding the tribes… as was Erskine, ironically. Kyrclaw may have deserved a blade between the ribs, but Farflit was intent on getting out as much information possible from him before then.

But nothing arose of his qualms; everyone was scurrying around with a grim efficiency and the goal of halting the White Madness on their minds. Unless they were infected, one dirty prisoner sure as Hellgates wasn't a concern. Farflit and Laikan breezed by with Kyrclaw and a minimal reception of odd looks.

As the trio approached the door, they could hear muffled whining and voices within. Laikan still held a steady blade to Kyrclaw's neck and grabbed both of his wrists behind his back, and as Farflit opened the door, the conversation grew louder.

"—is there anythin' you're not goddamn scared of?"

"I'm not _scared. _Just… cautious. I don't ever know what's going to react wrong with me, an' it's not smart to invoke curses on yourself. Especially not… not after the tunnel…"

"It is unwise to let fear rule you, but bein' careful where you step will keep you alive much longer," someone replied.

"Words of wisdom, there; now stop side-eyeing the string of peppers, Triscan," a lighter, feminine voice said as Farflit, Laikan, and the Juska entered the infirmary. "They aren't going to bite."

"I know, but if I bite _them_—"

Farflit came into the infirmary to see Lorn giving a light gesture at a string of dried peppers in her corner of the room, the mouse still wearing her dark scarf over her mouth. She was busy rearranging her needles, tourniquet cloths, and herbs. Across the room, Mank sat on the side of a bed, leaning over on his crutch with his splint-bound ankle rested on the floor. He was scoffing at the beast sitting in the next bed— a small, cinnamon rat with a round belly and oddly petite features for a male, who was eying the string of peppers like one would eye a forming murder of crows.

Presiding over everything was Yang, who was wiping the sandstone flecks from his paws and studying Mank and the shrinking Triscan with the un-aggravated attitude of a serpent, and still wearing his trademark adder-fang brooch at his neck.

Farflit didn't realize he was present until they were leading the Juska in the room, and by that point, it was too late. The grey fox grimly bit his tongue and straightened up.

"Erskine," Lorn said, automatically speaking and turning her head at the sound of the door opening, "if you're back to ask me to give Janno a position in the infirmary again, I have to say that I'm sorry; he trailed after Mellia agai— what in Vulpez's name are you _doing_, Laikan and Farflit?" she said, taking a startled back at the tattooed form of Kyrclaw coming through the door, followed by Laikan's cutlass. Yang's head snapped up at hearing the final name.

Mank was the first to speak.

"Bloody rotcore, they're bringin' a fraggin' _Juska_ in. What the 'ell, you two? Couldn't you have just killed him if you thought he was interferin' 'o somethin' instead of marchin' him back here as a hostage?" Mank demanded. Kyrclaw's shoulders tensed for a moment.

Triscan shrank back at the sight of the sharp markings streaked along the fox's features, and wearily took stock of the newest infirmary resident as Farflit cleared away all knives or sharp objects lingering by a bed and forced the Juska to sit down in it. Farflit recognized him by name as the one rat who had escaped from a Madness-filled mine before Erskine led a rescue mission into it. _Without his strong arms and attire,_ Farflit thought, _he looks too weak and unsure to be a miner._

"…how is it that problems find this mine so blinkerin' often?" Triscan said.

"Slag me if I know," Mank said, now looking over the Juska with some venom, but far more caution.

Farflit ignored both them and Yang as he turned to Lorn, who was standing in the middle of the room with crossed arms. She was the one beast shorter than Farflit, and he had to look down to meet her eyes. They glared out of her white-speckled face like agates in shallow snow.

"You've been exerting yourself more than I recommended," she said. Her eyes fell to Kyrclaw and the way he was sneakily observing everything in the infirmary… as well as keeping track of Laikan and his sword. "And you brought a stray Juska into the mine, who is obviously no friend," she said, switching her glare back to Farflit, "seeing the pleasant escort."

"If we're bein' clear about this, Lorn," Laikan said, studying some design on Kyrclaw's back with interest— _Laikan, if you get a Juska tattoo, I WILL debate on hurting you, _Farflit thought— "we really didn't exert ourselves much 'o go damn lookin' for him; we just found the piece of waterlogged fur washed up on the saltsnortin' river shore."

Lorn looked at him incredulously.

"This far north?"

"At any rate, it is still a Juska," a familiar voice said, speaking up from behind Farflit, and the fox's scruff bristled. He restrained himself. "An' whether 'o not it is uncommon, he has further endangered those in the quarry."

Farflit slowly turned around to see Yang standing nearby. In the bed, Kyrclaw's ears perked with interest.

"Ignorin' a full Juska tribe wanderin' about would've further endangered the quarry more than ignorin' him," Farflit said. "We need information from him, an' we're goin' to get it. 'O have you forgotten that much of yer trainin', Yang?"

"Believe me," Yang said, looking him over in contempt Kyrclaw could only dream of matching, "I do not forget _anythin'. _Judgin' by the fact that you are still here at the quarry, I would say that you do."

Embers of anger burned beneath Farflit's skin, and suddenly, it was hard to keep a straight face at all the damn accusations and little slights buried in that one comment. Laikan quietly watched him as the shorter fox's fingers gave a subtle twitch.

"An' I don't suppose you remember much either, seein' _yer _still here," Farflit said, a growl entering his voice, "unless you really like playin' the role of the hypocrite so damn much that you don't realize yer doin' it; I wouldn't expect different from you."

Yang's expression darkened.

"Despite our initial meetin'," he said icily, "I have come to expect nothin' at all from you." He paused, his stance tensing. "But Mavern says plentythrough your mouth, as does the so-called Captain Til—"

"_I dare you to finish that sentence._"

Farflit's voice dropped the room atmosphere to arctic levels. He was glaring at Yang with his hackles openly prickling, part of his teeth bared, but the rest of his face held a terrifying restraint. His only focus was Yang, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Seeing his expression, the Damsontongue stared back at him before slowly swallowing his words.

No one said anything. If they were not watching before, they were now.

Lorn— who was studying the Juska sitting prisoner in the infirmary bed before Yang and Farflit disturbed everything— was the first to speak up.

"Farflit," she said, carefully using the fox's name lest she triggered a delicate shattering of ice. "Yang. The Juska needs a check-up, and while you two might want to… talk to him later— which you do, no?— I need some aid and a clean space to work in. Meaning that you two can't—"

"We'll move elsewhere," Farflit said. He was now focusing on Lorn, not looking at Yang. His voice emerged saturated in the same pseudo-politeness they had both used when they first met. The tone was as welcoming as the sound of a face being crunched into a stone wall. "I understand."

"As do I," Yang said. His voice was barely smoother than Farflit's. He turned to Lorn, giving a small bow of his head. "This was an unfortunate… breach of politeness. I do not know if _he_ does, but I apologize for it."

"I do," Farflit said flatly. "But I only apologize for being within earshot."

There was another exchange of glares, though more refined.

"Now if you'll excuse us," Yang said, using the same polite tone, "we will be goin' outside."

"To have a _civil _conversation," Farflit said, snarling the word _civil._

Nobody rushed to stop them as they moved towards the door with rigid composure. As Yang opened it and filed out, Farflit behind him, the stocky fox could hear Lorn approaching Laikan and asking for help in examining the Juska… and hear Triscan exhaling in relief.

Both foxes stayed silent until they had passed out of the busier parts of the quarry. They remained straight-faced and prim— marching along shoulder-to-shoulder the same as old military companions— until they found a secluded spot behind a jagged sandstone rock.

It took only seconds for them to separate and whirl on each other.

"If yer goin' to finish sayin' what you've been thinkin' for the past season, Damsontongue, then do it now," Farflit growled, his final composure sliding in to bared teeth and raised fur. He was trying to keep his emotions in check, but the mention of Mavern and Aunt Tilda had seared a hole through his shield of control, and they were hemorrhaging out faster than Farflit could stop them.

"I think I have said all I need to say to you, but you refuse to listen," Yang spat. "You have brought a Juska into the quarry; there is enough strain here already: do you intend to endanger one of our only healers with watching that warrior? Healers make the best hostages. You might as well have lifted his head and bared our throat to him—"

"I wasn't the 'un who started a fight I was too cowardly to begin earlier in front of him an' revealed information!" Farflit said. "An' did you not hear my earlier reasonin'? He's a tribebeast like a Damsontongue; we have a clump of those within this quarry, an' they an' the Juska are the same anyway," he said, even as knew he was wrong, that the Juska and Damsontongues were nothing alike, and he was only struggling to land a verbal stab.

By the narrowing of Yang's eyes, he knew the same.

"If you believe the Juska and Damsontongues are the same, you have become lower than I believed," Yang said. He snorted, and bitterly touched his fingers to one of the stripes beneath his eyes. "No matter… seein' I am not required to be on a rescue mission until tomorrow, I will watch the Juska to keep it from Lorn and Mank's heels. Triscan is touchy enough after his emergence from the tunnel, an' I do not trust Laikan to tread carefully around him."

"Since when do you have free time?" Farflit said, his triumph about being correct about the Juska folding beneath Yang's swift agreement. "I thought you would be busy keepin' yer clingy group in order."

Yang raised a thin eyebrow at him. "It appears that bein' in an infirmary for five days has made you unobservant. None of my companions are here any longer— they were called back to the Southbase, if they had not already returned up to our home. It appears neither our tribe 'o Mavern wishes to risk the remainin' pieces of our group becomin' infected. I am the only Damsontongue left in the quarry."

Yang looked him closely, and Farflit felt he was trying to turn him inside out.

"But this is not news to you, either… the remainin' Mavern soldiers were called back to the Southbase a season ago, an' the majority had already traversed back to Mavern before then. You are the only soldier here." Yang tilted his head. Farflit was reminded of the adder that wrapped itself around Shaal's leg. "Why is it that a fox who fiercely defends Mavern refuses to go back to it, 'o even back to Southbase, with his companions from it?"

"Both Southbase an' Mavern are trained an' competent; they don't need my help," Farflit said. He ignored the twinge in his chest.

The whole purpose of sending soldiers and Damsontongues down to the quarry was to test the waters for how the south would receive the fox escorts, and to establish a small Mavern base. It was also to allow remnants of the Slave Line Incident force to get a breath of air away from their homes and to let some troublemakers get their rebellion beat out of them by hard work and training.

Southbase was long ago established a day's travel away. Farflit paid a visit to it every half-season to make a required report; he had not stayed or sent a message north. The majority of the troublemakers had been made strong and allowed to return seasons earlier when the minimum time of southern service ran out. The other final Mavern participant in the Slave Line Incident had gone back to main base a season ago.

Farflit was the only Mavern fox who had not returned to main base or communicated with it once in his entire quarry deployment. Now he was the only one remaining.

"So you are sayin' that the quarry does need you, an' that precious Mavern does not?" Yang said. He turned scathing. "For some'un who has fought me every step of the way about that damned army, and once told me that Mavern meant everythin' to them, regardless of bein' a—"

"I didn't return to Mavern for the same reason you didn't go back to yer tribe; I'm not the only 'un that stayed," Farflit bit out.

There was silence.

Finally, both foxes looked away from each other. Yang said nothing more. _We never get along, _Farflit thought, holding back a humorless smile, _but we understand each other. _

Yang and Farflit always understood each other. They had a mutuality built on embittered empathy, the memories of haunting shared experiences, and respect. It was the least and only thing they ever afforded each other.

"…fair enough," Yang said.

Both of them began to walk away. Yang started to speak again as they went back to the infirmary, but Farflit cut him off.

"An' Yang?" Farflit said, turning around. "If you ever insult Mavern an' Captain Tilda again, I _will _break you."

Farflit left before Yang could reply.

He had to go retrieve Laikan; they had rescue mission in a few hours, anyway.

* * *

_A.N: Oh. Look. A chapter. Blargh. I had some fun with Yang, and Farflit being a... well. I wish I could have split this up into two, or gotten rid of something, but oi, then there would be more gibberish slowing down the surprise up ahead. __Still, at last- part of the two sides meet._

_Fair warning: don't expect another chapter any time soon; my notes are a mess, and I'm still on some version of a hiatus. But I am feeling a bit better about writing, though I do it a lot less now, and I don't think the latter is going to change any time soon. At this rate, you can expect one chapter a month. Also:_

**curt**

_adj_ abrupt, rude

Synonym: short

_-in case anyone missed what *else* Anscom was making a jab at besides mannerisms._


End file.
